


Call Out My Name

by ambiguousem



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-04-21 02:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguousem/pseuds/ambiguousem
Summary: Chloe Beale is slumped over the basin in a grimy bathroom. The muffled thump of the music from the nightclub harmonises with the beat of her heart.Old habits die hard.





	1. I Was Never There

Chloe took a deep, uneven breath.

 

“Open your eyes.”

 

The long, uneven inhale broke the silence inside the cold, yellowish bathroom. The only other sounds, apart from the steady drip of the tap before her, were muffled by the thick, green and bolted door.

 

“Look at yourself.”

 

She was glad for the stifled music. Words incomprehensible, the deep base pulsed through her veins with every different beat matching that to her heart’s. She was glad, because if not for the music that kept her heart thumping with each note, she’d be sure at this moment she was dead.

 

“What are you- what are you fucking doing?”

 

She’s glad she came here tonight. A crowded nightclub located in the very slums of downtown Atlanta, only a 10 minute über, she could walk. It was still as busy at 3am as when she first arrived alone four hours earlier. Drunks, prostitutes and homeless people alike littered the curb. No judgement, no small talk, no identity. Just here to disappear.

She’s glad she came here tonight. What else was there to do? Face the truth? Her thoughts?

A bitter laugh barked into the cold atmosphere before her.

 

The Bella smelled the harsh metal of the room around her; blood, salted tears and sweat. Surprised she could still smell anything at all at this point, Chloe continued to try to evenly inhale. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. With a flash, blonde curls permeated her thoughts, Aubrey’s hand over her heart. A quiet coo.

Another spiteful laugh.

Aubrey. She really had tried; the redhead could tell. The blonde had even pleaded with her only hours ago.

_“Are you staying home tonight?” Aubrey had asked, “it’s been two weeks. Please Chlo, everyone is worried about you. I am worried about you!” Aubrey’s bright eyes glistening with tears that she dared not wipe away. She had to show strength. Yet, she was also afraid to move. This wasn’t like her best friend. Aubrey knew her roommate had moments of darkness, but it had been at least a year since the last time, and even then all Chloe had done was lay in bed, sleeping during the day and partying the nights away, eating only what Aubrey could coax into her. The co-captain had stood in front of Chloe, one arm slung over her stomach in order to keep herself together and not breakdown in tears due to the worry she felt, and the other before her, pleading her best friend to let her in._

_Chloe had just shaken her head, words escaping her. She couldn’t lie. She couldn’t tell the truth. She should let Aubrey in, yet she wasn’t even sure she knew how. She had pushed so far down into the depths of her darkness she didn’t know if she could find where she had hidden it._

_“Just, tell me where? Or at least reply to my texts when you can.” Aubrey reached for her hand, only to have Chloe retract it sharply, “I just need to know you’re safe.”_

It was now, in the tiny bathroom located in the back alleyway of the club, ‘Elsewhere’, she needed Aubrey now more than ever.

 

“Open your eyes.”

A shaken voice broke the silence yet again, trembling quietly over the sounds of whatever song permeated the dark dance floor beyond the alley. Alone in the bathroom, the redhead wanted so badly to see what she had become. To take a moment of clarity to face her demons head on.

With a final deep gasp, blue and bloodshot eyes opened.

The fluorescent bulb hanging from a chain above the mirror audibly flickered. Chloe stared at the sagging roof, daring herself to look at her reflection.  Her gaze trailed elsewhere, over the mould infested cracks in the barely reflective mirror, over the stained walls – until briefly skimming over a lock of red, messy hair. No. Slender, damaged fingers with uneven nails bitten in a haste of anxiety gripped the cold, porcelain sink. No. She wasn’t brave enough to look yet.

She stared at her hands instead. The right hand ached, knuckles red and violet with old blood accompanied by a two-week long tremor that she hadn’t been able to shake. Her left hand still lingered on the sink’s edge, grasping the tiny bag of coke that she had bought that afternoon. Her third since last Wednesday.

She gripped the bag tightly, knowing that she’d had enough. Knowing that if her friends were here, they’d kill her, setting wolves to her vocal chords as punishment or whatever Aubrey had sworn would happen. But they weren’t here, she was alone. Tom was somewhere in the club, probably hooking up with another girl after she denied him ‘a quick fuck’ in this very bathroom. She wouldn’t feel it anyway. Her mind would be elsewhere. Aubrey was probably in their dorm room, with Stacie or alone, studying. Beca would be with Jesse, her mind elsewhere or texting Chloe herself as he attempted to woo her with some cult film playing on his shitty Acer. Yet Beca wasn’t texting Chloe, or if she was, the redhead didn’t know. She ditched her phone on her bed before she left, truly believing that no one other than Aubrey would try to contact her. And now, with people crowded in the alley out the window, bodies heaving on the dark and crowded dance floor under a young DJ with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, she realised she was alone.

That thought alone pushed her to get her Barden University ID card from the back pocket of her black skinnies, emptying the packet on the ledge above the basin. It would never be enough. A thin, white hand brushed over her nostril. She’d been in this exact position but in a different bathroom four times tonight; hanging over the sink, hunched shoulders and avoiding all eye contact with the person in the reflection. 

 

A sharp rap on the door shook her from her thoughts, bringing her attention back to reality and consequentially catching herself in the mirror. Messy, wild red hair that surely stank of smoke, alcohol and remnants of her shampoo from when Aubrey had washed her hair in the bath over a week ago, was dishevelled, a ghost of the night’s events.

A fleck of vomit at the corner of her dry, cracked lips.

Beads of sweat clung to her forehead, her cheeks and her neck. A three-day old love bruise still splattered above her right collarbone.

Her plunge black playsuit, lace hanging from her shoulder, ripped from earlier on the dancefloor when Tom had grabbed it as she tried to walk away.

Sunken, dull blue eyes. Empty.

 

Another bang on the door caused the Bella to jump, tearing her glassy eyes from her unfamiliar reflection.

 

The thick door rattled with each pounding fist.

“Chloe?” A girl’s voice. A familiar voice. One she couldn’t put her finger on because of just how fucking _inebriated_ she was.

It could be Aubrey. God she hoped it wasn’t her. Or Stacie? Maybe even Beca. No. Chloe squinted her eyes shut, there’s no way Beca would come for her now. Chloe exhaled, trying to collect herself enough to even consider unbolting the door.

 

Beca was trying as hard as Aubrey, even if she wasn’t as good as showing her care as her co-captain.  The last time Chloe had seen the junior was at Thursday’s end of year party at the Sockapella’s frat house, thrown oddly enough by Unicycle and Jesse.

_“Chloe?” the redhead glanced up to see Beca looking at her sympathetically, a red cup clutched in one hand and her phone in the other. “I’ve been trying to call and text you, have you been out here the whole time?” she chuckled, trying desperately to break the tension that her friend was clutching._

_Chloe glimpsed at Beca from the corner of her eye, meeting brows frowned with worry. Deep blue, almond eyes with dark features contrasted with her pale, soft skin. Brown curls fell easily over a red, blue and black striped tee, a leather jacket slung hastily over her best friend’s arm. Gazing into deep blue eyes, Chloe noticed her raised eyebrows and dark eyelashes blinking expectantly._

_Oh, that’s right._

_Answer her, like a functioning being, Chloe._

_“What?” she attempted a grin, grabbing her phone from her back pocket and scrolling through the notifications. Oops. (5) missed calls from Aubrey and (3) messages, (2) calls from Beca (more than ever before, Chloe wasn’t even sure Beca knew where the phone app was on her phone) and (9) messages from the same girl, ranging from_ ‘ **where you at, Beale?** ’ _to little ones like_ ‘ **CHLOETH** ’ _and finally with_ ‘ **MY GOD WOMAN I GO TO THE BATHROOM FOR THREE MINUTES TO PEE AND I COME BACK AND YOU’VE SHAWSHANKED YOURSELF FROM THE TREBLE HOUSE** ’.

_She smiled at Beca as well as she could._

_There was also (1) missed call from Tom, and (2) messages, one informing her of a voicemail left by him, and the other, the reason she had come outside and away from grinding mercilessly against Stacie while laughing at Beca’s crossed arms and pout, simply said_ **‘Friday was fun ;-), free again this Friday?’**

_“Sorry! Just came to get some air.” Chloe stood, swaying lightly. Unable to keep looking into Beca’s wide eyes, she brushed non-existence dirt from her favourite blue jeans just to give her something to do. “C’mon, Mitch, let’s get back inside! There’s a party going on, and there’s no way we’re not celebrating you ace-ing your second year of aca-hell!”_

_She turned away from Beca, only to find her arm grabbed by a small, cold hand now holding her in place._

_“Can we talk?”_

_Chloe smiled and turned back to her friend. She sighed, a deep shiver running through her. Beca smiled at her, grabbing her leather jacket and placing hastily around the redhead’s shoulders. They sat in silence for a few minutes until Chloe, silently refusing to meet her tiny friend’s eyes, looked up. Beca’s eyes, previously wide with worry and curiosity, glistened with tears._

_“Chlo-” Beca began._

 

“Chloe?”

A man’s voice now, another bang on the bathroom door.

“Chloe? Are you in there?”

 

Without thinking, Chloe lightly trailed an aching hand along the nape of her neck with a deep sigh, remembering soft lips against her throat, placing gentle bites mended with quiet kisses, repairing broken skin. Hands roaming beneath her dress without urgency, soft thumbs running across her hips as her own fingers lost themselves in dark brown tresses of soft, curly hair. A thigh had slipped between her own, causing a moan to slip from the back of her throat as the other girl ground into her.

“- we need to get in there, just do it,” a female’s voice hissed from outside, bringing the senior again back to the scuffle beyond the door. Chloe’s head snapped up, placing her hands back on the edge of the sink and taking another deep breath, afraid she would fall without the support of the harsh porcelain beneath her hands.

With a sudden crash and a distinct squeak of a girl’s voice, the door slammed violently against the tiled wall to its left, falling off the hinges. A few squares of grimy tile dropped pathetically to the floor.


	2. I Was Never There (pt II)

Jesse stood in front of the group, shoulders heaving and fists clenched.

Aubrey was perched slightly behind him, clad in the same clothes as when Chloe had left their room, only now with her grey coat wrapped tightly around her slender frame. Her left hand rested on Jesse’s shoulder, sharp fingertips unmistakably digging into the Treble. Behind her was Benji, his right arm occupied by Emily whose deep brown eyes shone with fear.

 “Jess,” Aubrey broke the silence. She gave his shoulder a squeeze, “watch out,” she mumbled, pushing gently past the burly Treble into the mucky bathroom.

Before approaching the girl in front of her, Aubrey examined her surroundings, trying desperately to ready herself for any other threat possible before putting down her defences.

The bathroom they stood in was somewhat dilapidated. Paint peeled from the roof, flakes scattered in every corner of the square room and beneath the toilet. The mirror was cracked, stained with what could only be blood. The blonde swiped her finger across the crack and examined her tip; fresh. Chloe was positioned precariously over the cracked vanity, knuckles white from her strong grip on the basin. Tears stained her cheeks. The black lace top that Aubrey had let her borrow over a year ago was ripped at the shoulder, a hickey permeating the exposed skin on her collarbone. Toned muscles flexed as they clung to the grimy basin, a hand shaped bruise blossoming at the base of her best friend’s forearm.

Suddenly, the captain of the Bellas was very conscious of her pounding heart. It sat, hidden safely beneath her rib cage, now threatening to break through the encasing bones with each thump. Panic, terror and sorrow descended slowly into her gut, an unwelcome thickness seeping through her twisted intestines. She needed to touch Chloe. Needed to feel her warmth. To share her own. Delicately, she rested one hand lightly on her best friend’s shoulder, pulling her in while the other reached for her friend’s pulsating jaw. Chloe flinched away from the blonde, pushing Aubrey’s hand from her trembling shoulder.

Dull, blue orbs finally met blonde's, glaring spitefully into Aubrey’s hazel eyes. The redhead gritted her jaw again, gathering her twitching fists at her side of her tight, black jeans.  
“Don’t” Chloe whispered, towering over her best friend in her heeled boots. Vacant eyes disappeared, and Aubrey watched as a flow of tear’s ran from beneath now closed lids that were covered in remnants of an earthy red eyeshadow and a stroke of eyeliner. Chloe’s expression was a synthesis of anger and pain; she was seething, lip tucked beneath her white teeth and brow creased. Aubrey couldn’t remember the last time she saw such a raw, sombre expression worn by her roommate. She peered at the rigid guise worn by her favourite Bella, unable to tear her eyes away from Chloe in the fear that the minute she did, the redhead would disappear under her touch. Bloodshot eyes reopened, now fixated back on an unspecified place on the desolate roof. The blonde decided that now, with Chloe’s eyes opened and focused, it was time to move.

Raising her palms with caution, the Bella hoped Chloe was able to gauge her movements before she made them. Seconds that felt like hours passed, and now confident that the redhead wasn’t going to snap, Aubrey placed her palms on each side of her best friend’s face.

“Chlo?” The skin beneath her palms was cold, yet clammy. An ordinarily radiant face, habitually warm and welcoming with rosy cheeks and a broad grin was now spindly, skin a bleak shade of grey. Two teeth marks were etched on a soft lip, stained with blood. One nostril, flickering violently with each feeble breath was circled with the crimson substance, dried and crusted. The other, Aubrey noted, was raw and flecked with white powder. She felt destroyed, her insides breaking suddenly and violently into a million little pieces. The blonde knew her best friend was better than this. Or at least she thought she did. They had worked so,  _so god damn hard_  last time.

Moving her hands from Chloe’s cheeks down to her friends shaking hands, she ran her fingers over bloodied knuckles, bringing them to her mouth with a soft kiss. No flinching this time. Now assured that Chloe was stable and momentarily safe, Aubrey turned swiftly back to her friends, not letting go of the hand in her own.

“Em,” Aubrey gulped, meeting brown eyes in the doorway, “please go and find Beca. Let her know that we’ve found her and we’re ready to go. Quickly, please, before she has a cardiac arrest.”  
With the mention of her other best friend’s name, Chloe swallowed loudly, letting out another unsteady breath. Beca was here.

Aubrey looked from Chloe to Emily. Legacy was fixated on the redhead before her, tears falling silently as her lips opened in the slightest. The young girl’s petite shoulders were curved inwards, chest palpitating with silent sobs while she gaped in distress. It was with a snap of Aubrey’s nimble fingers in front of her face and a squeeze from Benji’s calloused hand that she nodded in response. Emily gripped her mustard-yellow wrap with quivering fingers, turning swiftly with a squeak and disappearing into the frosty darkness of the alley.

The captain of the Bellas glanced at the two Treble’s in front of her. Benji was now engrossed with the empty space where the door had been connected to the wall, trying to give the other people in the room some uncalled for privacy. Jesse had not moved. His eyes were stony, brown irises protectively fixed on the girl in the bathroom. He had come through for Aubrey tonight, for Beca. Aubrey was glad he was there; after receiving a snapchat of Chloe from Ashley. The video showed Chloe and Tom on the dance floor at a club Aubrey didn’t recognise. Her best friend seemed to be in a heated argument with Tom, his hands wrapped around her nimble yet toned arms, shaking her violently as flecks of spit flew from his mouth. Aubrey knew of Tom’s laidback nature, only perturbed when he was on drugs. The same with Chloe, who in the video was uncharacteristically staring through the man in front of her, eyes uninhabited and blank. This worried Aubrey the most. Upon replaying the video five times, her phone had begun to vibrate, Ashley’s name and contact photo displayed on the screen.

So yes, she was glad Jesse and Benji were here. An angry Tom frightened her, but an unpredictable and undeniably inebriated Chloe terrified her. She needed Jesse to handle any aggression the unruly redhead might throw her way.

Beca needed Jesse too, or rather Tom did. A tiny Mitchell had seen him at the bar, one hand up another girl’s skirt and a drink in the other as he leaned in to his company’s ear. The smallest Bella had seen red, stomping angrily up to Tom, stopping only for a second behind him with fists balled to her sides. Jesse had swooped in, grabbing Beca with one swift movement and pulling her away from Tom. The Treble knew it wasn’t worth it, grateful that his rage was better contained than his female best friend. For now.

A small hiccup tore Aubrey’s gaze from the Treble captain and back to her roommate, now leaning, jaded against the old vanity.  
“Hey aca-bestie” Aubrey shivered as she gave the cold hands in her own a gentle, forgiving squeeze, “how about we get out of here?”  
Chloe didn’t respond, but her shoulders fell into a defeated slump much like Emily’s before. The redhead took a step forward with a slight shudder, uneasily led by the blonde who grasped her hands. With a strangled yet quiet cry, she stopped.  
Aubrey was near her ear in an instant, whispering faintly with her lips almost touching her skin. She ignored how her best friend smelt like cigarettes, sex and spirits.  
“Can you walk?”  
“Um,” her best friend croaked, rubbing her eyes with her undamaged hand, “I’m- I don’t think-” Chloe shook her head. The blonde took a step back, hastily trying to come up with a solution that would get them away from this club before  _someone_  found them. Found Chloe. She knew Tom was still here. Knew he had most likely encouraged this dark side of Chloe that had come out tonight. She didn’t like the nature of his relationship with her best friend. It was casual, an ‘mindless-sex’ façade that had been on and off for two years, earning that label only so Tom didn’t have to care about Chloe the way she cared about him. The way she cared about everyone.

Chloe’s grasp on her forearm brought her back to the miserable room. She noticed her best friend leaning on her, vibrations from her trembling body displacing on Aubrey’s coat clad shoulder.

She glanced at Jesse wearily, ‘Do you think you can lift her?” He shrugged and nodded. Aubrey was glad he was here, she wasn’t sure Benji would be able to lift Chloe. The blonde squeezed Jesse’s shoulder again, wordlessly attempting to calm him. She knew he had been worried about Chloe from what Beca had shared, and kicking down the door seemed to only increase his tangible concern and apparent frustration.

 The Treble took a few steps towards Chloe, hands out in front of him as if to communicate that he meant no harm. The girl seemed not to notice him, or at least not take any apprehension regarding his sudden movements. Chloe’s breathing was laboured, as if it’s all she could fathom. All she could handle. One step at a time.

 With a swift and gentle Jesse-esque motion, he picked Chloe up and held her in a honeymoon position against his warm chest. Tears began to fall freely from the redhead’s eyes as she clung to him, a fist gathered around the nape of his light blue sweater. Jesse held his friend tight in his arms as he left the bathroom, grateful to be able to protect Beca’s light.

Amongst the damage, Aubrey surveyed the tiled room. The cocaine on the platform, a cold smell of a unique combination of vomit, sweat, and something so undeniably Chloe. A small toilet in the corner without paper and an ancient chain flush. Cracked tiles around the small window above the waste bin that was lined with vomit. The Bella was afraid, to say the least. She had always been able to keep her best friend’s behaviour in check, just as Chloe could calm her from her almost frequent panic attacks. This was something new, something darker than ever before. She shook her head, brushing away the reminiscence to tackle the task at hand.

“Benji?” the blonde murmured, the other Treble’s head shooting towards her and away from the hanging hinges of where the door once stood.  
“Can you get rid of this, please?” she asked with a low, gesturing to the powdery substance lined up on the mirrors edge. He nodded, blank faced and avoiding eye contact with the blonde, shuffling forward towards the basin while taking out a single magician’s glove from a pocket in his coat that Aubrey would never have known existed. The captain took this time to grab Chloe’s ID from beside the sink, washing the plastic card under the unsteady stream of water gushing from the disfigured faucet, the two working in silence to clear any evidence of Chloe’s existence the best they could before leaving.

“Beca’s got Amy, they’re bringing the car around” Emily had returned. Wiping the card on her denim jeans, Aubrey knew that Emily must still be terrified, evident in her eyes and the quivering rise and fall of her chest beneath her dark grey camisole. The younger Bella hesitated, “Beca is detached, yet **furious**. Not _at_ Chloe but y’know, the situation, I’m scared of when she actually  _sees_ her,” Emily continued to ramble, words spilling incessantly from her wet lips, “Aubrey, what-" 

The blonde shook her head, “Later, Em.” Gripping the basin tightly as her roommate had not minutes before, she continued on with her action plan. Her father would be proud of her collected mind in this time of trauma. “Call Stace, get her to prepare a bath. Ask her to please get Lilly to drop off some bread, I’ll pay her back at rehearsals.” Emily watched her leader slowly close her eyes without stopping the movements of her mouth, “Shoot CR a text, ask her and Jess to grab a bucket and some water before they leave the apartment. Someone needs to make sure Ashley got home safely, I’ll need to ask her tomorrow why on earth Jessica wasn’t with her tonight. I’m grateful all the same. Em, can you take care of her hand? It’ll need to be wrapped. Grab some tweezers and dettol from the cupboard when we get in. Jesse and Benji will have to carry her up the stairs. I’m going to need everyone out as soon as we get back, bar these little tasks. She’s going to come down hard and it won’t be pleasant”.

Emily crept slowly towards her captain, placing a gentle hand on Aubrey’s. “Everyone but Beca, right?”

Aubrey weakly smiled, “Of course, Em.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't got a beta yet, so if I've missed anything grammatically give me a yell.  
> Happy Tuesday,  
> Em.


	3. The Heart Is a Muscle

_Three weeks earlier._  

Her room was a mess. _That_ wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual, however, was Beca, laying face down with her forehead resting on the hard floor. She was the first casualty, a victim to her own hazardous ways.

It was inevitable, really; she had tripped over her charger, almost knocking herself unconscious by abruptly smacking her head on the edge of the bed frame.

“ _Dude,_ ” the brunette muttered to herself, words muffled by the floor. If not for Chloe coming over, she would have _gladly_  settled in for the long haul, welcoming a death that people would say was  _quintessentially_ _Beca_ in her obituary, written after they discovered her decomposing body surrounded by what could only be called a litter of dirty clothes and other junk. Yikes.

She hoisted herself up onto her elbows. Free hand rubbing her throbbing head, Beca blindly fumbled until gripping the top of the wooden post, pulling herself up to her feet with a groan. First a concussion, now strenuous exercise? What's next?

She sighed. _Great_. This would happen not 25 minutes before her plans.  
With a tentative shuffle, unwilling to let her feet leave contact with wooden floors (“Become _one with the ground,_ young grasshopper,” what _had Jesse the absolute **nerd** done to her_ ), the muttering Bella warily manoeuvred through her self-made war zone. Yanking the doorknob, Beca inspected her forehead in the full length mirror hanging inside the white closet door. 

Darkly lined eyes rolled as she faced her reflection. This was **so** typical. Her dad frequently joked that she hadn’t been a normal ‘birth’, but had rather inadvertently _staggered_ into existence. At this point, she almost believed it.

Examining her reflection closely, nimble fingers rubbed the inflamed bump that was already growing on her head. Rubbing it would make it go away, right?  Beca scowled. She was _definitely_ going to need make up to cover this. And not because she wanted to look good, but because there was no way in _hell_ that Chloe would **not** tease her about this, she thought, dabbing concealer messily over the mark. Presumably after the lengthy lecture about cleanliness in the dorm room that Beca figured the older girl had printed and bound at this point. She should just get back on the floor.

Satisfied with her handy work, Beca hastily shoved her make up back into the shelf drawer. Cleaning was just displacing the mess for Beca. Standing up, she stretched her arms with an audible moan. Her right arm was still pretty tender after the pull up she just did, but she needs to clean all the same. The only thing worse than meeting a violent death would be Chloe doing the same. 

Musing about double homicides and the difference between manslaughter or **just straight up murder** , Beca ran her hand through dark, knotted tresses. As she began to move dirty clothes into the wicker hamper in the corner, she threw a few pieces on her bed for inspection.

After constructing a clear pathway to the bed in the corner, she brought a shirt to her face, inhaling hesitantly. Satisfied that it would pass, Beca decided that yes, appearance wise, the navy muscle tee that she’s had since high school _is_ acceptable for company. The musty odour was nothing that a little Elizabeth and James wouldn’t fix. The shirt was clean, after all. It had just been on a dirty, and apparently _really_ solid floor.

Beca pulled the shirt over her black bra, accidentally brushing her forehead as she lowered the cotton onto her torso. She hissed and absentmindedly pressed the swelling above her brow while glancing around her dorm (What else? Right, pants!). The small girl pulled on some ripped black jeans, jumping up and down on the spot as she squeezed into the pants that were now blotched with tiny, nude coloured finger marks. Beca audibly cussed when glancing at her hands, seeing concealer smeared on her fingertips from the aggressive petting of her own head just before.

_Seriously?_

Gathering her hair into a messy bun, Beca reconsidered covering up the angry mark. Especially if it was going to be _this_ much of a hassle. She should’ve put ice on it, that would have definitely stopped the swelling. Why was she so bad at taking care of herself?

Chloe usually did it for her.                                                                  

Once, when the Bellas were sneaking through some bushes to get to a party at the Treble house, Beca had made the mistake of walking directly behind Amy. She was inexperienced then, too naïve to _truly_ grasp the guise of the girl in front that could only be defined as rowdy. In a particularly dense part of the woods that separated the rehearsal auditorium and the party, Amy had pushed through the branches, chatting to anyone who was listening about tonight's plans to ‘unleash the kraken’ (her vagina? Beca wondered), and viciously released a branch right into Beca’s surprised face behind her with an audible _thwap!_ And because Beca was who she was (stupid shit like that _only ever_ happened to her) she had begun to bleed profusely from a small gash under her right eye.

 _“Amy!” Chloe had whined, “Can you be more careful? You_ know _Beca lives in a constant ‘accident waiting to happen’ state!” The co-captain still had her hand entwined in Beca’s. The brunette had initiated it, linking hands and threading her fingers between her friend’s with a squeeze the very moment Emily mentioned the short cut she had adventurously albeit accidentally discovered during a late night visit to the Treble’s house to see Benji._

_The unruly girl inspected her friend’s injury, peering close to her face, breath reeking of tacos and vodka._

_“Shit, BM, you alright?” when Beca shrugged, she clipped her roughly on the shoulder, turning to a glaring Chloe._

_“Aw c’mon Red!” Amy flailed her arms to her side, palms wide as she gestured towards the short girl beside her. “Just a scratch, nothing a bit of grog won’t fix!” The Australian made a drinking gesture in front of her open mouth, but in traditional Amy manner, it looked like something_ much _dirtier than intended._

_Stacie giggled from the darkness, earning a scowl from Chloe, hands on her hips._

_With a distinct huff, Chloe had grabbed Beca’s hand and dragged her away, mumbling something in Aubrey’s direction about ‘first aid’ and ‘meeting up later’. The girls hooted and hollered behind their retreating figures._

Beca smiled to herself, fondly remembering the way the girl had led her through the night.

It was in Cynthia Rose’s borrowed dorm-turned-medical-tent, when Chloe had peered deeply into the wounded's eyes, soft hands pressing a bag of frozen peas to her cheekbone, that Beca noted the presence of an unfamiliar feeling simmering low in her chest.

Chloe had pushed her lightly onto the bed, fussing over the shorter Bella with an alcohol wipe and a band aid ("just for a little while Bec, we can take it off before we leave”). Content with her work, Chloe dropped down to her knees, yielding hands drawing faint circles on her friend’s knees.

Chloe had only observed, tucking her feet beneath her. She slowly raised her left hand to the side of her friends face, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind the pierced ear. Thumb now resting on the unharmed cheekbone, the air that lingered was thick and humid, suspended breaths baited in anticipation. Chloe dragged the same finger that had been latent on her cheek softly across pale skin, her silver ring cold on Beca’s face as the younger girl rested her heavy head in the warm palm. Chloe raised herself to her knees, humming quietly as she closed the distance between them. Two soft lips pressed lightly over the wound on Beca’s right cheek. Closing her eyes, Beca tilted into the embrace with a quiet sigh.

It was crazy to Beca, that such a quiet, fragile moment on the outside had been so _electric_ inside _._ It was as if she had roused from the long slumber of her numb life. She didn’t even realise she had been _asleep_. She was hooked. Chloe had just sat back on her heels, shooting Beca a small smile.  
_“All better.”_  

She hadn’t let herself overthink how she had _felt_ in the moment since. Didn’t _let_ herself think about the warmth that had pooled in her stomach, _slightly_ below. Or why. She just let herself be led and surrendering to her own desires. Somehow throwing herself _into_ Chloe while trying to not overthink the seemingly innocent touches the two shared. Beca was comfortable. There was something about her closest friend that filled her up, seeping into every hollow corner Beca had in her tiny little body. 

She didn’t want to ruin that. 

With a shake of her head, a feeble attempt to forget a memory that she thought about so very often (along with replaying every other innocent touch they shared _over_ and _over_  nightly before she falls asleep), Beca finishes tidying up, singing quietly to the tune that played from the speakers she had stolen from Chloe’s room about six months ago.

Speaking of her friend, Beca dug up the second season of Brooklyn 99 from under a pile of USB sticks on her desk; copies of her mixes that had _finally_ landed her a fortnightly gig in the city as a DJ.

Beca sifted through the pile, something about the swirling snow outside her window charging her want to gift Chloe the playlist she had made _for her_. She had dubbed it “ **Chloe/rainy days** ” after compiling it on her laptop. Beca had had a crappy day, finding herself in a familiar position; curled under her comforter, music playing softly from the stolen speakers and her hand, the only body part visible sticking out from the quilt wrapped around her phone, awaiting a response to her text to Chloe of a raincloud emoji, followed by a simple “ **Come over? Bring socks.”**

Hopefully, the readhead would be at her dorm any minute now. Beca glanced at her wrist watch.  
6:15pm.  
15 minutes late, which, if it was Beca, would be totally normal.If not expected. But this was _Chloe_. Never late, almost-always-10-minutes-early Chloe. Beca struggled to pull her phone from her back pocket, searching for a text from Chloe amongst the snapchat notifications from the Bellas group.

No texts. No replies to the few messages she had sent during the day. The last contact she had was a in the form of a video of Chloe on snapchat, filming herself as Aubrey finished tucking the patchwork quilt under Chloe's legs and giggling, captioned  **'a very burrito morning to you.'**

Beca shot Chloe a simple **‘???’** followed by a poop emoji before opening her snaps; countless pictures from the Bellas group ('aca-pitches'), three from Jesse and one from that guy Max in her humanities lecture.

Beca opened the Bellas first. Jessica and Ashley were together (as per usual) outside the campus cinemas. A cute snap of the two of them with tickets in hands and a caption of ‘ **6:30 session if anyone’s keen!!** ’. Fat Amy had replied with a snap of her butt crack peeping out from black tights reflected in the mirror, a horrified Stacie, Lilly and Cynthia Rose in the background. Cynthia Rose had her hands wrapped over Emily’s eyes. The snap read ‘ **about to leave, c u soon acalesbians**!!’ A blue icon showed a snap message from Aubrey, which said: ‘ **I’m in, can someone please grab me a ticket? Will be there a bit late. Don’t buy too much chocolate, it’s not good for your belt** ’. Beca frowned, ignoring the comment about the chocolate. What other commitments did her captain have besides the Bellas and intense cardio?

She opened the group's snap conversation, searching for her missing friend to see if she had responded, contemplating sending Aubrey or Stacie a snap to see if they knew where Chloe was. Just as she was looking at the little, red, filled in arrow next to the username, ‘clobeale.x’, she hears three fast raps on her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a song by Gang of Youths.  
> She burns (slow).  
> Thanks for reading, just finishing the final touches on the next chapter (party time).  
> I'll post it by Saturday.  
> Em x


	4. High For This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to update this yesterday, but fate (see: wifi connection) worked against me.

She’s never late. 

Mostly she’s right on time. Sometimes, she’s early.

On the rare occasion that she  _is_  late, she sends a text. Calls ahead.

But today, on this frosty Saturday, she’s not really feeling like herself. 

Chloe Beale rarely lies to others. She will lie to herself, frequently. Even over the most trivial facts. She will tell herself that Aubrey shutting her down in rehearsal is for the greater good of present _and_  future generations of Bellas. That inhaling a full tub of Ben and Jerry’s  _whenever_  she is stressed with Uni work is  _okay,_  as long as she hits the gym the day after. That whatever she feels for Beca isn’t urgent.

And today, she will lie to herself again. Telling herself over and over that she doesn’t  _need_  to face having nodes.

This morning, the doctor told her  **exactly** what Aubrey had told her when the two girls had discussed possible causes for the tireless pain in her throat. She had received a call from the clinic about a follow up appointment exactly a week after Doctor Shadul had run his tests. That morning he had told her that without a doubt, the vocal nodules were there. Ever present with every note she sang. That nodes weren’t something to really ignore if she enjoyed even  _speaking_ , and that her best bet was limiting strenuous use of her voice until taking further action. 

Surgery.

Slumped against the wall opposite Beca’s door, Chloe stood with her eyes closed, attempting to quiet the noisy anxieties about the upcoming gigs the Bellas had, the championships,  _her dream job._ The reality of everything she had been looking forward to, everything she had was slipping through her fingers, fast.

Chloe raised both hands to her face, fingers pressing, pressuring her temples in an attempt to stop the dull thud that had come uninvited. A steady exhale, her phone vibrates again in her pocket, notifying her of the several texts and notifications awaiting her. Sliding her thumb across the bottom of the screen, she reads the top message.  
**DJ Becs Mitchell:**  
'???'

She was technically late. She was actually  _on time._  Yet for some reason, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to knock for a quarter of an hour.

In the rare moments that something upsets her, Chloe’s feet will carry her across campus, stopping at this very door. It helps. Beca helps.

In the short time she’s known her (two years less than Aubrey), Beca pulls her down whenever she floats off the ground, tying knots around her ankles and looping the rope around the eye of an anchor, dropping it into a thick, deep water that feels a lot like safety and love.

Whenever she comes, Beca will open the door, capturing her hand and leading the redhead silently to her bed with a swinging slam of the door. No questions asked. It is under cosy bed sheets and blankets that her friend will wrap her impossibly tiny body around her own, running her fingers lazily over her arms and pressing feather light kisses to the back of her neck. She listens.

She tries to do the same for Beca. Everyone knows that Beca isn’t the most open of people. Chloe  _definitely_ knew it. It had taken all of two weeks for Beca to tell her that her mum had died in her second year of high school, but years later she still didn’t know exactly how it happened. She knew Beca well enough now that if she wanted to talk about it, she would. She knew everything else, though. Her blood type, her hatred for yoghurt (“The texture is fucking half way between milk and ice cream, Beale. Where’s the fun in that?”), the way she  _needed_ to have one leg sticking out of the blanket even in the dead of winter. And Beca knew almost everything about her ( _especially_ her infatuation with coffee flavoured yoghurt).

But it was different today. Her appointment in the morning, her fight with Aubrey in the afternoon. She felt unsure. Beca loved her voice, they recorded things sometimes. Sure, it was only little bits and pieces into the microphone in Beca’s headphones, but she knows it means a lot to the brunette, who spends the rest of the afternoon mixing them into some project for the club or her portfolio.

Her phone screen illuminates, dragging her out of her mind with a buzz and back to the vacant hallway. Another notification from the Bellas snapchat group.  
Received: 6:15pm. _Oops._  She manages another low breath, a hurried attempt to steady herself (she’s been doing that a lot today), and strikes her knuckles on the unadorned door three times. Knock-knock. Knock.

The door opens almost instantly. The small brunette stands in front of her, one hand leaning on the frame, the other on her hip. She’s wearing black jeans (a speciality), a dark blue top and  _her_  Tampa Bay Buccaneer socks, the stark red and white noticeably incongruent with the rest of her outfit.

It doesn’t feel as good as it usually does. There’s still a tiny, bit of black hiding in the pit of her stomach, significantly reduced by the sight of Beca in  _her_ socks.

Beca smiles at her. The spot shrinks to the size of a pill.

 

“So where have you been, Miss Beale?”

Beca leads Chloe into her room, slamming the door behind her and pulling Chloe down to the mattress beside her, warm hand still wrapped around her own.

Chloe shakes her head, head curved away from Beca’s single and challengingly raised eyebrow. She shakes off her black Anorak, shrugging it down her shoulders and unwrapping the linen scarf from around her tender throat.

She  **loves** Beca’s dorm room. She can’t believe the girl had scored her own room as a  _freshman._ She’s not bitter, much. Aubrey and her would never have met if they hadn’t been forced to share a dorm. She would never have been a Bella if her roommate hadn’t heard her singing in the kitchen while she chopped up bell peppers. Still, it would still be nice to have her own space, especially this afternoon when Aubrey had stood over her bed with a glare.

_“Why won’t you just tell me how it went?” The blonde had folded her arms across her chest, “Do you have nodes? Or is it something different?” Chloe stared at her shoes. White chucks that Beca had gotten her last Christmas (she had also got a necklace from Emily, her **real** Secret Santa, not that she’d bring that up with Beca)._

_“What the hell, Chloe? First it takes weeks for you to actually **go**  to the doctors, and now you won’t even let me in. Let me help!”_ _Aubrey’s hand snuck under Chloe’s jaw, delicately raising her head to meet her gaze. Hazel irises searched the bright blue, eyebrows softening despite the volume of voice just moments before._

_The taller Bella sighed, “I thought we were past this Chlo, I thought we didn’t shut each other out anymore.” Aubrey’s thumb affectionately tapping her chin twice._

_Chloe said nothing. She wanted to. Say something, that is. Anything. Apologise. **Tell her.**_ _Exasperated with Chloe’s silence, Aubrey had straightened up, standing tall before walking out of the dorm, the door slamming shut behind her._

Chloe shook her head; she didn't want to think about it anymore. She  _hates_  fighting with Aubrey. Slipping off her shoes, Chloe looks around the room. Something is different. Did Beca always have timber floors? The space looks almost bigger. Could she always shut her cupboard doors?

“Did you clean _?”_ she looks at Beca, only then noticing the slightly raised mark above her friend’s brow. “And do I even  _want_  to know what happened to your head?” Chloe leans in, and briefly presses her lips against the lump, kissing it better.

Beca moves back, frowning.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” Beca baits.

With a sigh, Chloe lies back on the bed, letting go of Beca’s hand (Beca  _sighs_ at the loss of contact) and tucks both arms under her head as a make shift rest.

The other girl wriggles her arms out from underneath her and replaces them with a maroon pillow, smoothing the red hair out across the cushion. Beca lays down on her right side next to Chloe, head resting on her hand as she loomed above her, waiting patiently.

“It’s just been a shit day, Becs.” Her honest admission is acknowledged with a quiet hum, Beca reaching out with her left hand to trace an unmapped route along her collarbone.

* * *

 

Chloe stands behind Beca in front of the full length mirror, left hand holding two braids as the other acts as a temporary make-shift comb, fingers running through thick waves of chestnut. She loves the way Beca’s hair smells; traces of cinnamon and pine. It’s nostalgic to her. She can’t remember how many times she has nestled into the brown mane of her best friend, eyes closed and nose against roots as they lay side by side in bed.

“Hold.” She instructs.

Beca blindly reaches behind her, grabbing the two threads that Chloe positioned in her hand as she sings along to something playing from Chloe’s speakers.

“Who sings this song again?” Chloe asks, pinning the baby curls at the base of Beca’s skull into the Ballerina bun. 

After convincing Beca that no, she didn’t want to talk about her day just yet, her friend had proposed a drink. Saturday’s were almost always reserved for binging a TV show and some take out, but on the off chance that one of them wanted a dance or felt like getting off their face (the latter more so Beca), they would join the Bellas at whatever acapella party was advertised on Facebook.

Chloe hesitantly agreed to go, explaining that she didn’t really want to see Aubrey tonight. The blonde would definitely be there, as all of the Bellas were hitting up the Treble’s gathering after the movies. Beca didn’t push her to talk about Aubrey.

They hadn’t needed to change their outfits. Beca never wore anything too complicated, just shrugged on her leather jacket and a pair of black and white high top converses which Chloe had nudged with her own (“Twins!”).

Satisfied, she pats Beca on the shoulder twice, signifying that she had finished. Beca swivels, hand routinely reaching to touch her hair. Chloe is ready, wrapping her fingers around her friend’s slender wrists. Beca always tries to touch it.

“Hairspray first, Mitchell,” she chuckles, spraying the mist on every surface of her hair, going twice over the braids that don each side of her head (Beca nervously  _fiddles_  with her hair, and whenever Chloe braid’s it, it’s the first thing she goes to touch).

Beca pouts in the mirror.

Placing the hairspray down on the brown drawers beside them, Chloe grabs Beca’s hairbrush and drags it through her tangled hair.

“Wet.”

Chloe chokes. What?

“Are you now, Becs?” she smirks at her friend’s reflection in the mirror.

Rolling her eyes as she turns, Beca scowls.

“The song, Beale. The song,” she gestures to the speakers, “Don’t Wanna Be Your Girl, by Wet. Legacy gave me some music.”

She giggles, “Oh.”

“That reminds me,” Beca says as she struggles to get something out of the front pocket of her jeans (like, the  _tiny_  pocket on top of the fake pocket). “It’s a little different, but I figure maybe it’ll help with whatever happened today,” she gives her a USB with ‘ **Chloe/Rainy Days ☼’** printed from the label maker Aubrey had let Beca borrow (any excuse for Aubrey to buy a new one).

Chloe tightens her grip around the flash drive and forces a small smile in gratitude.

* * *

 “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

The two were standing in the garden to the side of the Treble’s slightly ajar door. Voices and music floated from the back of the house and towards the front where the two Bellas were still, acoustics of the tiled hallway amplifying the tune tenfold.

They had been chatting about music (“How can you not like Coldplay, Mitchell?  _Everyone_ likes Coldplay.  **Please don’t tell Stacie** ), when Beca suddenly thrust her arm in front of Chloe. The brunette snaked her arm under Chloe’s shirt and around her bare stomach with a tug, walking her  _back_  down the steps and to the side of the porch, into the dark.

“I’m sure, thank you,” Chloe sighs, leaning her head onto the brick wall at her back. She just wanted to forget about it for tonight, get wasted and do something stupid like a keg stand,  _successfully_  (Amy always shows her up).

“Okay, but I won’t forget about this,” the shorter girl leers, wiggling a finger at Chloe.

“Me either,” she mutters. Beca stops smirking, deep blue’s dip down to the grass and back up to Chloe’s face ruefully. She reaches forwards, timidly sliding her palms under the redhead’s shirt and pulling her in for a hug. Beca takes a breath and Chloe feels her settle into the embrace as she wraps her arms around the brunette’s frame and squeezes back.

“Well, when you’re ready…” Beca begins, using Chloe’s go to catch phrase when it’s her who is upset.

“…You’ll be there, I know. Thanks Becs.” She tries to pull back from the hug, but Beca holds her tightly. The brunette pulls her head back slightly, and nudges her freezing nose against Chloe’s cheek. Their faces are so close, bodies too. She can feel Beca, breasts against the top of her stomach, hips bumping together through their overcoats as Beca stands on her toes and plants a soft kiss on the scar on Chloe’s forehead. She lingers, lips unmoving on cool skin until she withdraws, only to place another kiss on Chloe’s cheek.

“I love you, Chlo” Beca whispers, tucking her head into Chloe’s neck, “I know I don’t say it a lot, but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiles into Beca’s hair, still smelling of a sweetly bitter infusion of her shampoo and hairspray and simply says, “I love you too.”

Beca’s lips graze her neck, scorching the stratum of skin atop her pulse. The capsule size blackness shrinks to the size of a pea.

* * *

They’re sitting next to the pool a few hours later. Tufts of snow still littered the green grass where the woods met the patio, but alcohol and the bonfire has kept them precariously warm. The party had died down a little now, only a few people were still dancing on the make shift stage/ dance floor right next to the keg. Cynthia Rose and Lilly are drunkenly teaching Jessica, Ashley and Flo some choreographed moves from a YouTube video. Jesse is fist pumping with Beca’s  _friend_  Max from the highnotes, who until tonight Chloe wasn’t convinced could be bothered to move  _that much_  with the amount he was always smoking.

Stacie is sitting next to Aubrey, both girls sipping on their drinks and chatting in front of a stretched out Emily, long legs dangling over the end of a banana lounge. Her dark hair is splayed over the head of the chair, Legacy bopping her head silently to the music, wearing some random sunglasses (her eyes were definitely closed; it was past 9pm), with lips around two pink, connected straws reaching into a red cup balancing dangerously on the chair.

Chloe is perched on the cooler, beer between her legs as she fixes her hair. Beca is settled next to Amy on the bench, quietly watching her (like she has been all night) while slowly sipping her drink. The Australian is playfully kicking Bumper in the knee as he retells some  _shitty_ story about him and Unicycle serenading a girl in the quad, the other character in the story snickering beside him. Chloe doubts any of it even happened, or if it did, she felt sorry for the innocent and unsuspecting girl that had been Bumper’s victim.

It had been a good night. Chloe had danced with Stacie until she forgot the reason they were there (okay sure, the alcohol helped a _little_ ). Aubrey had given her a small smile when they saw each other, showing that she had not yet forgiven her for that afternoon, but that she would be acting civil in a public space.

Beca was loudly calling Bumper out on his “clearly fake ass story, when would a girl ever stay in the same vicinity as you for an  _entire song?”_ when Jesse and Max appeared behind her, grins wide. Jesse wriggled a little bag filled with green in Beca’s face.

“Whatd’ya say, Becs? Feel like being nice and rolling for us tonight?” Beca rolled her eyes. Chloe knew that when Beca was in high school, she smoked cigarettes.  _Anything_ to get back at her Dad. Beca had admitted it to her in her first year over coffee, when she watched Beca scowl in the direction of two guys taking drags from the little, white sticks outside the café.

Beca didn’t smoke anymore but she still knew how to roll. Apparently she was one of the best. When they partied with their collegiate acapella friends, Beca usually rolled for Max, although Chloe knew he was more than capable. Yet, there’s probably only a handful of times that she had seen Beca _smoke_ what she rolled. Each time, Beca politely offers her a toke, and when Chloe declines, she doesn’t ask her again for the rest of the night.

She didn’t do that shit anymore.

Chloe watched Beca snatch the bag from Jesse, who had continued to jiggle it annoyingly right in front of her face. Max laughed and took off his knit beanie, pulling a pack of papers and a lighter from the green hat and tossing them to Beca, who upon catching them, looked up from her fisted hands and looked expectantly over at Legacy, who’s lip was already jutting out in a pout.

“Can I pleeaase stay? I’m super comfy.” Stacie patted the legacy on her hand affectionately, Beca always made Emily leave on the  _rare_  occasion someone brought drugs out. “I promise; I’ll go if you all smoke.”

Beca raised her eyebrow at the youngest Bella, who eventually put her hands up in the air and stood up, “ _fine!_ ”, she shot at Beca before petulantly walking towards the house, most of the Bellas and Unicycle getting up to follow her. Not many people at an acapella party smoked.

The only girls who stayed were Beca, Amy (the blonde was currently playing the drums on her bare stomach, trying to hype up the brunette beside her) and Chloe.

Beca frowned at Chloe, head tilted to the side in query.

“I’m staying.” She whispered back to the unspoken question that was asked. Turning her head away from Beca’s perplexed stare (she couldn’t answer her _why_ she was staying), Chloe met Aubrey’s glare from over Stacie’s shoulder. Her best friend’s eyes were wet in anger and apprehension as she scowled, arms crossed against her chest in front of a giggling Cynthia Rose and Stacie. She knew that getting high would mean serious, serious trouble with Aubrey. They had clashed before, sure. About silly things like song choices during rehearsals, choice of juice in the fridge and Aubrey refusing to study with music playing where Chloe couldn’t _imagine_ such a _silence._ It had been over a year, however, since their last genuine  **fight.**

Chloe scrunched her face. It was about Tom. Naturally. Aubrey didn’t believe that the tall burly guy who was coasting through Barden on an athletics scholarship really  _cared and respected_  Chloe the way she deserved (Chloe definitely didn't believe she deserved  _more_ ). The blonde was sick of Chloe living in  _his_  world instead of their own, partying all night, stumbling in at 3am smelling of sex, perspiration and alcohol. Sick of Chloe, her absolute best friend and rock in this small acapella world, dealing with her seemingly unrequited love (“You might want to try actually  **talking**  about it with Beca, Chlo”) with unhealthy, casual sex. Chloe had apologised about the coming in loud and late, that was inconsiderate. The Tom thing had never been discussed again, Chloe continued to sleep with him just as Aubrey continued to sneer whenever his name was mentioned. 

She needed this tonight, needed something more to disintegrate the slowly ever growing black _thing_ inside of her that stuck around despite plenty to drink and a rare albeit cherished moment of warmth from her best friend.

Ending the stare off with the blonde, Chloe swivelled back to the group just in time to see her favourite part of the night: Beca, lip bitten in concentration, smoothing out the bursting apparatus into a tube shape between her tiny fingers. She gulped as she watched a pink tongue dart out to slowly moisten the sticky part of the translucent paper. Chloe’s throat was dry; she felt  _thirsty._ She nudged Amy and motioned for her drink, turning back and taking a deep sip as Beca stuck the joint in between her pursed lips.

The brunette wiggled her eyebrows at Chloe, mouth curved into a devious smile around the spliff as she lit it. Taking a deep inhale and with eyes closed, she passed it left to Jesse. Jesse inhaled, hacking into small coughs with a grin and passed it to Max (level: professional) who smoothly passed it to Amy. Bumper’s turn was next, but Fat Amy leant across him, undeniably brushing her boobs on him on purpose and passing it to Chloe with smoky breath.

“Ladies first,” she winked at Chloe before turning back to the boy, “no one wants your poo spit on their reefer, Bumper”. She gave him a shove while Chloe held the joint, laughing at Amy, not really wanting to question what she meant.

Beca cleared her throat quietly. Blue eyes were rimmed with pink, the brunette mouthed ‘you good?’ when they met each other’s gaze.

Chloe nodded, although she wasn’t sure she was.

She hadn’t done anything other than have a few drinks once a month in a  _really_  long time. Almost a year. Two weeks or so after her immense blowout with Aubrey. 

This was just pot, though. Not pills. And it was just once, her day had been really shit.

Chloe brought the spliff up to her lips and took a long drag. Holding her breath, she blindly handed the smoking joint to Bumper (“Finally!)  and tilted her head towards the night sky. It tasted nostalgic, her throat was screaming in protest and pain as an earthy haze of weed and tobacco trickling down her airway and billowed deep into her chest.

Mentally, it  _felt_  great.

With a slow, elongated exhale of smoke, she dropped her head back down to earth, grinning ear to ear, trying desperately to hide the intense pain ripping through her throat. Chloe knew it had been forever since she’d done this; her senses were already intensely amplified. The music sounded  _so_  good and the guitar solo dwindling from the speakers strummed along the strings of her heart.

 

After a few rounds of passing the joint, she feels like pure gold. Numb, she had forgotten about anything and everything as Beca was now cuddled up to her, back between her legs and leaning on the cooler as she sat beneath Chloe. Beca’s hand was wrapped around the underside of her leg, stroking lines on her thigh through the denim as she clung to her. Dark hair was now unfastened, spread across her lap as Beca literally  _snorted_ over Chloe innocently asking if she thought cows got songs stuck in their heads.

“Well? If they hear the music, surely it’s possible. They have  _best friends_  Mitchell, it’s been proven by science, the article is printed on my fridge and everything!”

Beca cackled, “Dude, they’re  _cows_!” she gripped Chloe’s calf tightly as her body shook with laughter. Chloe pouts at the shorter girl, who reaches up and sweeps her finger across the protruding lip. Beca beams, eyes smouldering as she takes a sip from the bottle of water that Jesse had thrown at her in passing and settles back down between Chloe’s legs.

They’re still and it’s like she’s in a dream. Her insides are pink and glittered gold, no sign of any black spots. Everything around her looks new. The woods are handsomely sinister, a synthesis of dark hues of green and brown. She can smell the damp earth, a bright moon hangs low above the canopies and the feeling inside her chest is like being somewhere she once was.

She’s a child again, everything is new and she just wants to feel it all. To _touch._  So without any sensible reasoning, she scrapes her nails lightly across the silken brown chaos that is smoothed across her lap. The hair is so _soft._ She can’t think of anything better than doing this for eternity as remnants of hairspray release between her fingers as she returns to the crown of Beca’s head and repeats. Beca’s eyes flutter close, inclining into the touch before letting out a throaty moan.

Chloe shivered, heat rushing between her legs as the sound that just came from her best friend echoes through her bones. And before she knows it, Beca is up, leaning on her knees before her.

“Are you cold, Chlo?” icy hands ran up and down her arms, “I can go get your coat, or we can go back to mine? Watch a movie or something?”  She can only nod, the feeling of lying in a big, comfy bed with Beca sounds precisely like her version of heaven on earth. The brunette stands and brushes the dirt off her jeans, giving Chloe a moment to fully comprehend what Beca just offered.

“A movie?” she chuckled, “Wow Becs, you must be really gone if you want to watch a  _movie_. Should I grab Jesse? Make his night?” she continued to ramble on as Beca pulled her through the crowd towards the house. “A threesome? That is, you, Jesse and the movie because there’s no way that I-”

“Shut up, Beale,” she shot back, grabbing Chloe’s anorak from the hook, “I’m just going to tell the others we’re leaving, put your coat on.” She winked before turning away.

Chloe complied, watching Beca as she walked up behind Aubrey who was having a heated conversation with Max with a smile playing on her lips. Beca placed her hand calmly on her elbow and whispered into the blonde’s ear. Aubrey nodded and gave Beca a quick kiss on the cheek before saying something back to her with a nod.

She sauntered back into the house where Chloe stood, grabbing her own parka and dragging it over leather, “ready?”

Zipping up her coat, Chloe nodded and said, “Aubrey, huh? Did you throw bleach in her eyes earlier on so she couldn’t see it was you?”

Lacing her fingers between Chloe’s and leading them out the door, Beca snickered, wisps of vapour suspending freely in the cold night.

“I said shut _up_ , Beale. We’re friends.  _You’re friends._  She wanted to know you were going to be safe.” Beca smiled at her, sneakers crunching across the hard gravel, “We’re  **not**  going through the woods by the way, I’m not sober enough for that”.

Beca swings their arms between them and sings Hozier to the stagnantly silent campus. Snow begins to fall and Chloe sings along, trying not to think about how she is sobering up. A murmur of tumultuous grey drips down the back of her throat and spreads, seeping into her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy petting served with a side of angst up next.  
> Thanks for all your support so far!  
> Em x


	5. The Deepest Sighs, the Frankest Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you'll notice below, but I'll say it now; I've never written anything close to 'smut' before.  
> I'm sorry it took two weeks, but I had some serious writers block and a few Uni assignments due (ask me about discretion in the court of law, I dare you.)

“Can I ask you something?”

Beca is noticeably soberer than Chloe, who slumps on her bed the moment they cross the threshold. It’s to be expected; Beca decided she would go easy the minute Chloe decided to stay, immediately chugging a bottle of water. She felt perplexed; Chloe wasn’t one to get anything more than buzzed. She had always thought it was because she wanted to be a responsible captain, similar to Aubrey who only let loose once she was sure everyone was safe and her food had securely digested to avoid any “chunky situations”.

Yet, it was more the sequence of the days events that had left Beca feeling wary. Chloe had been late, avoiding any explanation with a change of topic except briefly mentioning a serious argument with Aubrey before heading out and getting high with Beca and Amy for the first time at a party that Beca herself had suggested they go to, thinking that being around friends might cheer Chloe up.

“Ya-huh,” Chloe answered with a hiccup, sinking into the mattress with coat bound shoulders drooping and arms heavy at her sides, “you can ask me anything, Beca Mitchell.”

Beca shrugged her leather jacket off and hung it inside the closet. Bending down and shuffling through her make-up drawer, she grabbed a packet of removal wipes, flinging one at Chloe before using her own. She’s already finished and thrown her hair up into a messy bun (her go-to) by the time Beca turns back to the figure on the bed who is clutching the wipe in her hand and staring _through_ her.

Something like anguish or distress burns in Beca’s chest like a bolt of lightning and reposes, brontides murmuring beneath the churning cumulonimbus in her sternum.

Chloe had been _off_ tonight. That’s the only word Beca can call it. And she’d know, unable to tear her eyes away from the redhead all night (that wasn’t anything _new,_ but Beca knew she had been less elusive about it; she was too concerned to be _subtle_ ). The moment they’d stepped out on the Treble’s patio they were besieged by Bellas, a gaggle of girls who shoved red cups in both of their hands and chatted over the top of each other about Emily and Benji kissing when they arrived and how Donald and Bumper were riding around on a little red wagon. Her greetings in response were pretty non-committal, attention fixed on her best friend to see if she needed to get Chloe out of there and back into the safety of her sheets.

But Chloe was fine, to most people. She was her usual effervescent self; flirtatious, giggly and handsy, wrapping her arms around Stacie’s curvaceous frame as they grinded to R. Kelly. But to Beca, definitely Aubrey and probably Stacie herself, Chloe wasn’t really _present._ There were times when Chloe would stop mid-conversation, eyes glazing over and drink hanging limp in her hand. Second’s would pass and Beca would stand, ready to weave her way over when Chloe would shake her head reassuringly, smile and re-join the conversation with as much interest and enthusiastic participation as before.

There were no tears. Which would be totally okay; she’d know how to deal with those. There wasn’t really any talking, either. Which was also okay.

Only it really wasn’t like Chloe.

She ambles back over to the bed and drops next to her best friend, easing the wipe out of her hand. A discernible breath exhales from Chloe’s nose as lid's drop in submission. Beca pushes the untamed hair away from her face, tucks it behind her ears and begins to wipe away the cosmetics. Chloe looks drained; dark circles plunge beneath her lashes and Beca wonders how long whatever this is has been going on.

Over the years they had been fellow Bellas, Chloe had unravelled her. Taken the Book of Beca off the shelve, blown the dust from her spine and read her page to page, save for a paragraph in the chapter somewhere in the middle disdainfully titled ‘Mother’.

And she liked to think that Chloe had let her do the same. Until tonight, before Aubrey had said what she said, she had truly believed that she knew Chloe back to front. Today, it’s like Chloe has closed the book, or rewritten it in a language that she can’t read. She can feel Chloe slipping through her fingers, and she decides to try once more.

She stands up, rolling the wipe up into a ball and shoots it towards the bin (and missing, she was never one for hand-eye coordination) before returning to sit on the hardwood floor in front of Chloe’s legs. She’s about to ask her what was going on when Chloe yawns, quickly raising her hand to her mouth and sluggishly grinning beneath it, “Oh, sorry Becs. I am just _so_ tired.”

“Pyjamas?” Beca’s already crossing the room to the closet and grabbing an oversized white tee and Chloe’s Disney princess shorts that she had stolen from her in her junior year when Chloe kicks the overnight bag at the foot of the bed and mumbles, “I totes brought my own, you know.”

She can only chuckle, “C’mere, Beale, you smell like bonfire and weed and you’re about to fall asleep with your coat still on.” Chloe shuffles closer to the side of the bed and lets Beca discard her coat as well as she can while the redhead is still sitting down.

Self-assured fingers slip the little white chambray button through the slit on the other side and Chloe wearily giggles.

“What?”

“Well, you’re undressing me! _I’m_ usually undressing _you_.” And it’s true. Chloe is usually tipsy, but never enough to need to be taken care of like this. Beca is the one usually drunk and in need, and she’ll argue black and blue with the Bellas that it’s _not_ because she’s a _wild child_ (Stacie’s words, not hers) but because her minute body can only physically hold a certain amount of liquor.

“Arms,” she instructs, Chloe sits up straight and flails her arms a little at her sides, giggling with her eyes still shut. “C’mon, sunshine,” Chloe raises her arms above her head.

“ _Out_ , Chloe, to the side.” A small smile graces her lips, “you’re wearing a button up.”

Chloe bunches her blouse in her fist and raises it nonsensically close to face before peering up at her sheepishly. “Oh.”

Beca peels off her shirt and tosses it into her dirty washing hamper near the door with a laugh. Chloe is beautiful; sober, drunk, asleep or awake, happy or sad. She knows she’s not the only one who is attracted to her, the girls talk about her physique and eyes _all_ the time, and Beca has been there when boys stumble over asking for her number. It figures, especially with the sight she sees now. Tom is a lucky guy. 

A lacy, dark green bralette is snug around Chloe’s perky breasts and Beca has to look away because it wouldn’t be right to be thinking about _that_ right now. She has seen her naked before (get your own damn shower, Beale) but there’s something about the almost transparent material covering the mounds of flesh that makes her mouth go dry and she _struggles_ to look away like she usually can. The tiny snowflake necklace that Chloe has worn ever since Beca has known her falls elegantly on her clavicle and she _needs_ to think about _anything_ other than placing sprightly kisses above it.

Beca lightly pushes the redhead back onto the mattress and Chloe falls with an ‘oof’, one arm under her head, the other thrown across the crimson quilt beside her. Beca balances one knee on the bed alongside Chloe and leans in, pushing tousled strands off a slightly damp forehead and murmurs, “I’m going to take your pants off now, okay? Just in case you get like, surprised or something and karate kick me in the head, again.”

“Way to be romantic, Becs,” Chloe simpers before stifling another yawn, “and that was _once_.” Beca slides her hands up each side of the athletic thighs. Chloe’s breath lazily hitches as she skates her fingertips just underneath the top of the denim, ensuring that when she pulls the garment off, it’s _only_ the jeans that come down (she’s not sure she’s ready for _that_ ). Beca throws liberated pants in the corner and replaces them with silk Cinderella shorts before nudging the redhead to pull herself up. Beca puts her beloved fluffy socks on Chloe’s squirming feet before helping her under the covers.

She expects Chloe to be asleep by now, but when she finally gets settled into the bed after changing, baby-blues are wide awake, staring up at her in anticipation.

Beca hesitates. In all the time they had been friends, Beca thought she had seen Chloe at her best and worst; she was sure that she had Chloe as much as Chloe had her. She thought she would just be even _a little_ privy to what was going on, maybe she didn’t mean as much to Chloe as Chloe meant to her? Beca took a deep breath (don’t think like that) and she’s stomping down her insecurities with a heavy kick before shifting to lie beside Chloe, pillow tucked beneath her head. 

Chloe was snuggled beneath the duvet; the blanket nestled around her chin, red upon red obnoxious against the unwavering blue stare. She’s a floating head, blinking softly with her lip drawn beneath a fixed bite and Beca has never seen her so _vulnerable._

Beca has always been sort of _bumbling_ and ungainly; she trips a lot (in both talking and walking) and isn’t very good at picking up social cues. Sometimes she uses _finger guns_ to _shoot people_ in order to feel _less awkward_ (she realises now that probably only exacerbates things, she has never really made the connection, funnily enough). And Chloe is the exact opposite. She oozes vivacity and confidence and sometimes Beca introduces her as the ‘human embodiment of sugar’. She’s a peace maker. She’s fierce (see: wrestling with Aubrey in a pool of vomit). She drinks raspberry tea and _enjoys_ it. Every time they walk around the campus together Chloe waves at someone who Beca doesn’t recognise and she isn’t really sure how they’re best friends. 

But Chloe makes her happy. And she is always grabbing her **before** she trips and placing a hand on the small of Beca’s back when she starts to stutter, silently reminding her to stop and breathe.

She’s reminded of something Stacie had said to her when Beca had drunkenly doubted their friendship one night after _another_ three-way argument with Aubrey in rehearsals; they’re a necessary paradox, not a senseless contradiction. She is the darkness to Chloe’s light, they can’t exist without the other.

It’s with this thought that Beca reaches out, sweeping her hand up Chloe’s arm and resting at the base of her ear. She caresses her thumb along Chloe’s cheekbone before asking, “how are you feeling?”

She’s met with a sigh, Chloe pulls the blanket away from her body and pushes it down before laying on her back and staring at the roof, “Is that what you were going to ask, Beca?”

“No, but I thought just thought I’d check in first.” She wriggles further down into the bed and feels Chloe lace their fingers together under the covers.

Chloe chews her lip. “Good. Everything is still a little funny.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Beca squeezes the hand she holds, and Chloe stops staring at the roof and finally looks **at** her for what Beca feels like is the first time today. She seizes the opportunity, wanting Chloe to know that she’s _here_ and that she can trust that she won’t run (although it is kind of her thing).

"Are you okay? You don’t usually do much more than have a few drinks,” the hand in hers withdraws and moves to fidget with the frayed ends of the timeworn shirt, “and when I said goodbye to Aubrey she said something kind of… weird.”

Chloe hesitates, “Weird?”

“Yeah, just when I told her we were leaving,” Chloe rolls onto her back, seemingly interested in the posters on the wall and Beca continues, “she told me to ‘make sure you were okay after tonight’, and I guess I’m just a bit confused.”

She is met with more silence but she can sense Chloe’s body; rigid, alert.

“Is it about your fight? Or getting high?”

Another resonant silence stretches for miles before Chloe turns back and inhales before speaking, “Beca, I’m sorry for the way I was tonight. Today, really. And about Aubrey, she’s just worried because,” she fiddles with the shirt's hem again, “because I haven’t always had the healthiest relationship with drugs or alcohol or any kind of debilitating substance. I never told you partly because it happened a while ago and I’m _better_ now and I just really, really didn’t want you to think of me any differently.” She spits the last bit out in a single breath, raising her eyes to finally meeting Beca’s, who is glad she isn’t a stranger to hiding her emotions because she’s feeling _a lot_ right now.

How could she not know about this? Why didn’t Aubrey tell her? Obviously the blonde knows about it and how much Beca _cares_ about Chloe. She isn’t angry, she’s worried. And a little annoyed. Annoyed with herself for letting Chloe get high with them tonight, annoyed with herself for _ever_ getting high near Chloe, annoyed with Aubrey for not ever having a go at Beca for doing drugs or drinking around the redhead (she also can’t believe she just **thought that.** ) How could she not know?

She’s frightened too, because she knows Chloe is talking about something more than smoking a joint with her in the Treble’s backyard and she really doesn’t want to see another situation like her Moms. And that _hurts._ Because she allows herself think about **that** once a year, every year, to the day. Adept in the skill of detaching herself from her feelings, whenever anything that even remotely _threatens to_ remind her of her mother proliferates she shuts down. When Beca is drunk, or on that once-a-year feels fest, she thinks that might have been the problem in the first place, and the thought that her mom might still be around if she had just been brave mutilates Beca to the core.

But she isn’t, she’s gone. And she can’t lose Chloe. Can’t. Physically, she is very small and that amount of desolation would unquestionably break her.

“Beca, I can hear your brain whirring. Please say _something_.” The apprehensive voice tugs Beca from her thoughts. She’s met with watery eyes and for the first time she is _glad_ she is incompetent at sharing her feelings; if Chloe knew about Beca’s mom, she probably would never have told her.

“How long ago was the last time?” she asks softly.

“About a year,” the voice cracks and she’s sobbing and Beca feels an untimely wave of relief because Chloe is finally _feeling something_ other than _numb_ which is a ‘something’ Beca knows. She pulls her against her chest, wrapping her hands tightly around Chloe and whispering little comforts and kisses against the crown of auburn. Chloe is nodding into her chest, palms swiping hastily at unyielding tears before bringing her knees to her chest.

“It’s okay,” she is **not** good at this, this is Chloe’s forte. Beca strains herself to remember the last time Chloe had comforted her and tries to channel what she can remember made her feel better into the moment. “I’m here,” she slides her hand up Chloe’s jaw leans down before pressing her lips to the wet cheeks.

“Becs-” Chloe swats her away, laughing beneath relentless tears (it’s working).  She presses her lips against the patch of skin between her brows, on top of her nose and in the corner of Chloe’s mouth until she isn’t really sure what she’s doing because now is _definitely_ not the time to be experimenting but she places her lips on Chloe’s. 

It’s not a huge deal, they kiss all the time. Well, only on the lips on two different occasions, both without tongue and both while playing spin the bottle at Jessica and Ashley’s dorm. But she’s desperate tonight.

She remembers the first time Chloe kissed her in a way that wasn’t a greeting or a departure. That time Amy had flung a freakin’ branch into her face and Chloe almost had to put her face back together. Chloe’s heavily lidded eyes and the feeling of fire in her chest when she had delicately pecked atop her band-aid. She had been addicted since then, stealing seemingly innocent kisses in private, always pushing whatever feelings of insecurity and diffidence that began to rise down and out of her body trying to chase that feeling.  But that wasn’t why she was kissing her now (was it?), it was to get Chloe out of her head.

Chloe, who she wants to be okay so badly that she’s kissing her, knowing it’s okay because Chloe steal’s kisses from her too; on the hand, the head, the shoulder. 

She knows it’s okay because the cheek under her nose is dry and the sobbing has alleviated. She knows it’s okay because Chloe is kissing her _back._

They’re still laying side to side when the body beside hers moves; a warm leg wraps over her waist and her body is drawn flushed against Chloe’s. It’s not hasty or rough, there’s little fireworks and it doesn’t feel like the end of a rom-com. It’s even more than that, smouldering embers of heat that still remain long after the flame went out. Chloe’s lips are on hers and she’s the eye of the storm; Beca’s fierce winds are light breezes, the stillness she feels only around the redhead is tenfold. And just when she doesn’t think their bodies could possibly be any closer, a gentle hand slides up her arm and grips the spot of skin between her neck and shoulder, fingernails sinking deep into flesh and Beca is being pulled in.

 _Unbelievably_ soft lips meet her own again, brushing them lightly. Beca can taste her, something so exceedingly _Chloe_ with a hint of keg beer and earthy smoke. Chloe draws back, yet not too far, and brushes her mouth against her slightly opened lips again.

 

And again,

 

and again.

 

Unhurried. Slow.

There is no rush; time stands still as swollen lips pull back. They are only inches apart; Chloe’s mouth is so close to hers that she can feel ragged breath on her lips. Skin is warm under her fingertips as she trails a path back and forth along taut shoulders. Something between a hum and a moan escapes Chloe as she leans in again and her heart thuds so fiercely at the sound that it threatens to break out of her chest.  Chloe rolls over and Beca’s brain is whirring a mile an hour because Chloe is now _on top_ of her, breasts pushed against her own and mouth against her ear. “What is this?” Chloe leans away from her ear and presses her lips briefly against Beca’s before pulling back and smiling at her, “Not that I don’t like it, but it’s a lot of concentrated affection for you.” 

She can feel heat rising up her chest and settling on her cheeks as the words splutter out before she can stop herself, “I didn’t want you to think anymore,” and she has to look away, eyes finding anchor on her desk because she is _exposed._

“You’re such a nerd, Mitchell.” Chloe sits up, straddling her hips, the heat from beneath the thin silk flush against her lower stomach. Beca chases her, supporting Chloe in her lap and kissing her again. She’s not sure when all of her fears were replaced with certainty but her mind is blank and her hands want to roam as slaves to her want. She needs to touch and to taste. Chloe’s hand is around her neck pulling softly at the tresses of hair that have slipped from her bun, the other rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. A dim light spills in through the gap between her curtains and paints a thick line diagonally across Chloe’s face and she can tell by the shadows that it’s snowing again.   

The hands around her neck slide forward, dipping over Beca’s collarbone and sliding up her throat to rest on either side of the brunette’s cheeks. Traces of salty tears are scattered in the lashes of now hooded eyes, and Beca is sure she’s never seen this shade of blue before. Chloe’s stare is unrelenting, dripping with what she thinks is lust before the redhead leans in, capturing her lips again.

They’re touching lips **hungrily** when Chloe opens hers against Beca’s and pulls her bottom lip, sucking gently and _my god she’s going to explode into a million pieces._ She’s trying to steady herself, come back down to earth when she inhales through her nose. Electricity charges through her and she’s hurtling straight back into space when Chloe’s tongue slips out from between her open mouth and runs along the seam of Beca’s bottom lip. She hums, opening her mouth for access and Chloe complies, slipping her tongue inside and brushing it slowly against her own. It’s so unlike the little peck’s they’ve been sharing, Beca can’t really appreciate how much until she feels Chloe above her, hand sneaking up to behind her neck and pulling their mouth’s together impossibly close.

This was new.

It’s so _intimate,_ in a way that Beca has never experienced before. She can’t believe she’s feeling so much. She’s alight; shining brighter than the sun and everyone can feel her warmth even from her little bed in Barden and she doesn’t feel small.

And she never does with Chloe.

She boldly slides unsteady hands from where they repose on the thighs clasped around her own to dip underneath purple shorts and back again. Chloe’s eyes snap close beneath her touch as she repeats another orbit up to her hips, this time skimming along the skin where the bone meets her thighs and it’s so _soft._ She’s glad the redhead’s knees are locked beside each of her legs because if not she’d probably unravel into a million little pieces, judging solely on the heat and pulsating desire between her thighs.

She’s trying to be slow. She’s trying to focus on her plan here, to distract. But it’s _hard_ for her; Chloe is the earth’s core and as long as she has known her there’s been an unremitting _tug_ coming from her centre. She isn’t sure why she fought the gravitational pull for so long.

This time she’s a little braver as she traces her course around Chloe’s lower body again, this time reaching further beneath her pyjama shorts and resting on the dip of her hips. The expression she is rewarded is fresh, Chloe’s eyebrows are knitted together, nostrils are flared and her lips are slightly parted as she frowns in concentration. “Is this okay?” Beca bumps her nose on Chloe’s and when the redhead doesn’t respond she panics. Trembling hands retract underneath Chloe’s shorts and she’s looking anywhere but up. Small hands hesitate over the bed in a panic of _where_ to put them when fingers wrap around her wrists. Beca's head snaps up to Chloe’s face, mouth gaping when her hands are tenderly pulled back up smooth thighs and laid to rest on top of the underwear clad bone.

“Becs,” she gulps, “I want-” Chloe’s chest rises and falls rhythmically beneath white cotton and Beca is hyperaware of how close they are. Seconds tick by before her insecurities start to suffocate her and she can’t help but blurt the next word out.

“Less?” she doesn’t even have time to hear the reply as lips press forcefully against her own, she tries to pull back to ask but Chloe follows her, never taking her mouth off her own and wraps her arms around Beca.  Chloe’s hands begin a trajectory of their own, beginning at the small of her back, dipping over her stomach and sliding leisurely up her ribcage and back while they kiss. There’s a whimper slipping from her own mouth as Chloe pulls back, leaning in to place a quiet kiss behind her ear.

“I want **more** ,” the voice is dripping with desire, lips grazing her ear before reaching down and pressing a line of wet kisses to Beca’s neck, “if that’s okay with you,”. Instinctual hands tangle in auburn locks, pulling Chloe in because she _needs_ her to know how fucking good this feels. She’s sure the message is received as Chloe scrapes her teeth tantalisingly down to her collarbone and back up until resting above her pulse point and three things happen simultaneously.

 

First, teeth sink into her neck and begin a perfectly choreographed dance; a bite, a flat tongue pressed against her neck, a whirlwind of cold air with a peck to finish. 

Secondly, her hand flies to the space on her throat that Chloe isn’t currently nipping at as a raspy moan leaps from the bottom of her chest, through her cheeks and skates across the top of Chloe’s hair, leaping dangerously around the room. The sound is reverberated by Chloe as a result of the third thing that happens; her hips buck up  _into_ Chloe, who is absent from Beca’s neck in a heartbeat, which she _totally_ expected after the animalistic sound she just made.

What she _doesn’t_ expect is Chloe’s expression. She looks the same as before, with her nostrils flickering as dense air leaves and returns and teeth sinking precariously into her bottom lip. Only it’s **amplified** , as if someone has poured gasoline and lit a match. Shoulders surge up and down beneath a positively wild mane of auburn hair, blue eyes laden with unmistakeable want as Chloe shifts atop her, shuffling side to side until she is tight against Beca’s hips again.

There’s a silent pause save for the heavy panting, Beca taking in as much as she can of the girl who is positioned just below her navel (she’ll probably never forget this) before Chloe moves, a throaty moan thrust into the room as she grinds. Slender fingers find a place on her shoulders and she’s rocking hard, back and forth with furrowed brows, Chloe’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips before a stream of profanities spills out.

 “Oh, f-. Fuck, Becs.” Beca is sincerely _surprised._ She has never heard Chloe even say ‘crap’ without raising her hand to cover her mouth and scrunching her eyes shut to say a silent prayer. She almost giggles and the sobering thought brings her back to reality, giving her moment to finally _act_ on what Chloe told her she wanted. 

More. 

With a flip she’s on top, hand’s on either side of the redhead as she hovers over Chloe’s body who is gawking up at her in emphatic shock. She’s so turned on and thankful they’re going slow because Beca’s pretty embarrassed about the amount of slickness in her Spiderman (oh for _fuck’s sake,_ Beca) underwear. Some part of her urges to know if Chloe is experiencing the same. 

The mattress dips under the weight of her arms, balancing her while she moves into position, one knee on either side of Chloe’s left thigh. _Don’t think_. She pushes the top of her knee into Chloe who whimpers before jerking up against Beca. Chloe is seizing her lips and kissing her, pushing her tongue urgently into Beca’s mouth who _melts_ before murmuring, “Like this?” Chloe’s nodding profusely and Beca, desperate to hear another whine, drives her knee into Chloe’s centre again before settling into an easy rhythm. They’re always in sync, in one way or another. In rehearsals planning out a set with Aubrey or pouring over Beca’s computer at 2am and discussing progressions and lyrics only to find out they’re talking about the exact same song, and now, when the skin above Beca’s knee is slick and hot and Chloe is moaning into her mouth.

She’s resting on one elbow why the other hand holds a creamy hip, tongues dancing in the mouth beneath her and the thought that she’s exploring her best friend with her tongue is almost a little unbelievable at this point. But Beca is thrusting and Chloe is whimpering between irregular kisses, sharp nails tugging so forcefully that she is _positive_ skin is being scraped from her shoulder blade. Slender fingers skate down her spine and settle on her ass, Chloe using her newfound grip to intensify the cadence of Beca’s rolling hips. Her tongue is pushed back into her mouth and she can feel Chloe’s hardened nipples peeking through her bra, rigid under the light cotton against her own chest and she wants reach up and skate her finger across one _so badly_ but that might be crossing the line.

The line’s a little blurry anyway.

But it is still there, so she decides to take a different route. Chloe’s hands wrap around the back of her arms, and Beca pulls back from the embrace just to _look._  Chloe is flushed, forehead slick with sweat as she pants incomprehensible words, her mouth now abandoned by Beca's. Upon hearing her own name amongst the whispers, Beca ducks her head down, only able to place several messy kisses against the perspiring throat before Chloe shoves her back.

Beca is off in an instant, mind running a million miles an hour trying to figure out exactly where she went wrong. She lands on the neck kissing, but surely that was less than grinding into Chloe’s wetness with a bare thigh. Without a sound, Chloe props herself up on her elbows before sliding back and leaning against the wall behind Beca’s bed. She’s still breathless, but her face is rumpled (in pain?), hand around her own throat and Beca is thrown because she hasn’t ‘gone too far’ in the normal sense but has _hurt_ Chloe.

“Chloe?” she reaches out to grab her friends free hand before deciding against it and settling them in her own lap. “Are you okay? Your neck, is it-”

She’s cut off by Chloe who is shaking her head, hand now rubbing up and down her throat with a wince.  “No Beca, I’m sorry. It’s my throat, it’s really-” Chloe bites her lip to silence herself, now blindly reaching out for Beca with her spare hand. Beca grabs her fingers and holds the unsteady appendage in between both of her hands, stroking back and forth with her thumbs and waits for her to continue.

But she doesn’t. Beca, still holding Chloe, shuffles back and leans against the window next to the redhead. There’s a sigh, fingers still clamped around a sensitive throat, and Chloe leans into Beca, who wraps an able arm around her and places a kiss against her temple. 

It’s probably a few minutes before they move. Beca has been running her hand through auburn hair while they sit. Chloe cranes her neck towards Beca and presses a single kiss to her lips before mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s for serious okay, stop worrying. Let’s get you to sleep?” Chloe nods and Beca wraps her arm around her waist, pulling her down onto the mattress before covering them both with the quilt. She waits for Chloe’s breath to even out before she allows herself to relax. After a while of running some mix progressions in her mind, listening to the rustling of the wind in the tall trees outside her window and the muted snoring from the figure she’s wrapped around, Beca realises sleep won’t come easily. She’s too worried about Chloe. Beca is afraid she pushed too far, and she doesn’t want to ruin it all. She can’t.

She wants to talk to Aubrey, about everything. If Aubrey knows what’s going on with Chloe, if she can help. She also wants to know what the deal is with Tom, never being secure in answering questions that Chloe might ask her in _return,_ she's never asked. She is also anxious to know about Chloe in the past. How Aubrey had helped her out of her funk, but she won’t ever ask. It’s a story for Chloe and Chloe alone to tell.

Beca relents on her nightly quota of overthinking and succumbs to sleep after a reassuring thought. Chloe is her best friend and has been for a long time, probably since her initiation. When Beca was still a freshman, she had run out time and time again, and Chloe would be there when she would slink back, tail between her legs. And Beca had been strong for Chloe when she had lost her Grandpa. She couldn’t remember the last time she had run, and she remembers Chloe mentioning how proud she was of Beca for it (“gross, Beale”). They could talk about everything in the morning.

* * *

A confounded vibration from the bedside wakes her. She groans, blindly reaching for her phone and mumbling a sleepy apology to Chloe for the noise before noticing that she’s gone. 

The bed is cold and Chloe’s faithful weekend bag is missing. Chloe has never left her in her bed before, especially not on Sleep-In Sunday. Beca swallows before grabbing her phone, hoping Chloe has left her an explanation before fearing the worst. She has four new messages, the first from Chloe.

One&Only Chloe Beale, received 5:54am

> **Sorry to love you and leave you ;-) I know Sunday is sleep in day. Going back to the dorm to change for a run, see you at rehearsals later.  
>  ** **Thanks for everything, you’re really good at cheering me up.  
>  ** **Might have to have a bad day again sometime soon ;-P**

Cap’n Posen to Group: Bellas, received 6:38am 

> **Rehearsals @ 3.**

Cap’n Posen, received 6:45am   

> **Doing a run through with your Frank Ocean/Etta James/Vera Blue mix. Still not sure how you did that, Mitchell, but I’m not complaining.  
>  ** **Did I mention rehearsals were at 3? Not 3:10. Not 3:05.**
> 
> **Thanks for taking care of Chloe.**

Swanson, received 7:05am

> **Forgot to mention last night, ran into your Dad the other day @ dining hall and he mentioned tomorrow’s “anniversary”. Can hang if Chloe’s too busy 4 u? Sit back sipping on some fresh Caprisun’s and NOT watch movies. Hmu Becaw.**

Locking her phone, Beca rolls back over and nestles into the sheets. She’s about to fall back asleep when she props herself up, fisting her pillow and hurling it to the floor before grabbing the other and tucking it under her head. Pressing her nose into Chloe’s smell and vetoing the ache of a redhead shaped void in her bed she closes her eyes, desperate to get another hour or year of sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hesitate to let me know if something sucks! Here, or on Tumblr (thatsmy-dick or fiilth).  
> Thanks for sticking with me, see you in a week or so.  
> Em x


	6. Echoes of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry about the wait and the quality. I am trying to mend a broken heart.

Nothing clears Chloe’s head like an early morning run.

Rain, hail or shine; most mornings she was out, jogging her usual track with headphones blaring an upbeat playlist. From the ground floor of her dorm hall, she runs through the science corridors, past the English Lit Library, circles the quad and takes a right to run steps before looping around the athletic track and heading back home.

Running grounds her. It’s the concentration on her cadence and the beat of her steps as her feet push her along the pavement that gives her close to a full hour a day to practice mindfulness. She runs almost every day, hooked on runner’s high and a clear mind.

Everyone has their addictions, something that has them obsessing deep into the ridiculous hours of the day or night. Something that seizes them with a resilient embrace, pulling them into something they involuntarily welcome with open arms. 

It can be little or big; Beca will mix for hours on end, wild eyes tired beneath a mop of unruly hair, flitting between her visual synthesizer on her laptop and 4 channel controller system until she finds her sound. Cynthia Rose can’t walk away from a bet; Stacie has a dangerous relationship with salted-caramel popcorn ice cream. Ashley has _slept outside_ with her vegetable patch in order to keep them warm and Aubrey has her perpetual obsession with pre-bed time routines and that weird kick of dopamine she seems to get regarding leadership and control of not only others but herself. Chloe often wakes to find the blonde hunched over a textbook illuminated only by the light of her desktop, split screened with her Masters course work on the left and Bellas set on the right, Cath Kidston Planner propped up on the computer speaker as she scribbles furiously in a notebook. Sometimes she has to physically _pry_ her away from the desk, coaxing her into sleeping. 

Chloe’s addictions diverge; some things come and go. Sometimes she latches on to things and can’t release them; Beca, the Bellas, exercise, food. One time she spent a substantial part of her Monday night (and well into Tuesday morning) trying to recreate a lemon drizzle cake that she had tried on the drive home from a family trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains (double the egg yolks, _duh_ ). 

Sometimes one addiction gets too much and she has to switch to another.  Sometimes she can hide from them, sometimes she embraces them. For the last four years of being at Barden and knowing Aubrey, it was running.

They had barely spoken a word to each other their first night of being roommates. Aubrey was _already_ studying and Chloe had busied herself in the even _smaller_ kitchenette than the one they had now. She ended up making them **both** dinner. Aubrey had flinched, only to recompose and mutter a meek ‘thanks’ when she had slid the plate of risotto onto her desk. Chloe thought she seemed a little obnoxious, only reaffirmed by her alarm at 5:30am the next morning, two and half hours before _anyone’s_ first class. Chloe had rolled over with a scowl, only to find Aubrey in her tights and crop tying up her laces. The blonde had given her a faint smile, tying up her hair into a pony tail before asking, “Did you wanna go for a run?”

Her roommate had been stern and instructive in her tips and tricks to being a novice runner, but was soon doubling over in laughter, breathlessly wheezing when Chloe had run headfirst into a pole near the law block. It had been their thing since then, waking at dawn every morning they could. Whenever they were planning, stressed, gossiping or had cramps, they’d run. This year, Aubrey doesn’t come with her as much, now understandably opting for morning yoga to calm her down. 

For Chloe, morning is the best time to run. She loves leaving her dorm just when the sun comes up, the day’s hues billowing into the sky, beams of yellow and white shining through the leafy canopies (or the feeble branches during the winter) around Barden. As a rule, Chloe doesn’t generally run on Sundays, usually staying in bed snuggling with Beca after a long night of chatter and bingeing TV shows. This morning she had woken at 4:30, Beca warm beside her. As always on a Sunday morning, she was happy. Content until she shifted in the bed and was blinded with images from the night before. They had made out, if you could call it _just_ that, and it seemed innocent _now_. But the memory of gripping her nails into flesh to grind Beca’s thigh harder against her underwear caused her to shiver. It was only when Beca had bitten down on her throat that she _remembered_ the whole vocal nodes thing and it had cleared her mind in an instant. A freezing cold bucket of water was poured over her head as she realised what they were doing, and that if she didn’t stop now she might not have been able to.

As she reaches the stairs above the athletics track, she is still unsure. Chloe had dreamt about _exactly_ what happened last night hundreds of times, waking up in need of a cold shower. Or a shot. What were the brunette’s intentions last night? Sure, she wanted to distract her, ‘cheer her up’. But by making out? It was innocent enough, but the echoes of Beca’s moans while Chloe kissed down her neck left her feeling a little unsure. There’s no way Beca wasn’t straight, Chloe knew her and Jesse had slept together a few times before deciding to just be friends. And there was that guy from the station, but she’s never mentioned anything about girls further than Chloe herself. She’s never _actually_ asked Beca.

She’s conjuring different scenarios about if and how she could ask (it might be too late to be a casual question now) when a sharp pain stabs her in the side. Clouds of grey roll above her as Chloe descends, stopping at the start of the lanes, bent over and heaving with deep breaths. She’s not hungover. She just has the wrong mindset for running all together, no amount of metres able to take her mind off last night. Smoking is not good for your throat as it is, but it’s the black spot that hangs from her shoulders like an irate chimpanzee, pulling her down with each bound that now has her hunched over.

A warm, rugged hand squeezes her trembling shoulder. She flinches at the touch, firmly believing she was the only one here this early on a Sunday, especially in the winter. Deep brown eyes are crinkled in the corners, a matching set with a mischievous smirk and Chloe takes out her headphones, resting them across her shoulders. Tom is wearing a black crew neck with matching shorts, skins and Adidas runners. She forgot he runs track every day, even on a Sunday.

“Hey Miss Beale, never seen you out of breath before,” he squirts a jet of water into his mouth before simpering, “at least, not with clothes _on_.” 

Tom has a Masters in Flirtatious Banter, much like herself. It’s probably what got them together in the first place. It was over the Thanksgiving/Christmas period of her first year, Aubrey had gone home to see her father and Chloe remained on campus, her own Dad was on a business trip and her Mother visiting her brother in Seattle. Chloe was walking through the entrance hall of the library where she had been catching up on forgotten readings when her brand new canvas bag split open, a clatter of pens, books and other junk spilling across the marble floor. Dropping to her knees, she had began to make a stack of her pens and shoving them hastily into her forgotten pencil case.

“Are you always prone to bad luck like this?”

The stranger in front of her was at least a head taller than her, dark brown hair the exact same colour as his unending eyes. He’s wearing a black denim jacket, open buttons exposing a plain white shirt, now wedged at his sides as he bends, picking up odds and ends from the pile. Chloe thinks he’s a little plain and it’s all a bit cliché (he’s still really hot).

“Excuse me?”

He straightened up, shuffling her books into a neat pile in his hands, “well the other day I watched someone knock into you near the Memorial Hall and you jumped and flung your coffee onto the grass,” Chloe faltered, of course a cute guy would see her doing _that,_ “I just wondered if it was a bad week or if you were a magnet to this sort of stuff.”

She could only blush, he recognised her from another day? “Maybe it’s just your presence that brings such luck,” she winked (‘be **cool** ’), grabbing her stuff from his arms as he chuckled, sticking his hand out for an impromptu handshake before withdrawing and laughing; she had her hands full.

“I’m Tom.”

“Chloe.”

 

They had seen each other at a party only the next night; he made a crass joke about his presence and cupped his hands under her drink, cautioning her not to spill it with a grin. Only a few hours later he was shoving her back into the door of his dorm, strong hands kneading her ass as he pressed hot kisses down her neck. Chloe wasn’t _that_ _girl._ That one who slept with someone without really knowing them. But this was college, and she was feeling pretty lonely since Aubrey had left for home. And it was _good,_ so good she was wiped out, falling asleep in his bed (another thing that was not like her) and woke up to fuck twice more.

It had always been casual. Some weeks they met every night, sometimes it would be a few months before they slept together again. Tom was on an athletic's scholarship, so she would see him most mornings at the track. It was never exclusive, but she didn’t feel phased; he felt like a friend. It was easy to run back to him every time she remembered that Beca would never reciprocate her feelings, or when she had a hard day. Or even when she was just plain horny (which was more often than not; Chloe is a pretty sexual person).

“Speaking of,” the gravelly voice snaps her from her memory. He’s below her now, one knee on the red track as he ties the lace of the other shoe before he tips his head to meet her eyes. She’s waiting for him to continue, but Tom switches position to tie his other shoe and Chloe gets the cue, “speaking of me being naked?”

He beams, nodding before speaking with visible breath in the frosted air, “it’s been at least two weeks, Beale. Found someone else to have throwaway albeit amazing sex with? Because I’m not sure I can let go of _that_ ,” Tom flits his eyes from the bottom of her tights up to her chest, licking his lips before continuing, “without having one last hurrah.” She begins to giggle (he never fails to make her feel attractive) when it gets caught in her throat at the memory of where she has been and the last person she had been with.

Beca. 

“I’ll call you, soon.” He grins at her promise with a nod and throws his water bottle into her hands. He takes off along the track, head turning over his shoulder before calling out with a wink, “better be soon, Red!”

Chloe sighs, taking a sip of water before throwing it towards Tom’s gym bag and starting her run back to the dorm. She really should apologise to Aubrey before it was too late and they fell into the uncomfortable pattern of avoiding each other. This morning she had managed to sneak into the dorm, change and grab a banana before Aubrey returned from her Sunday morning yoga with Stacie. Returning a wave to Tom across the track, Chloe shoves her headphones back in and begins to run back to the dorm.

* * *

 

When she gets back to the room, Aubrey is sitting at the breakfast bar wrapped in (Chloe’s) towel, highlighting some notes. They’re lucky; when Aubrey began her Masters, she was privy to a nicer room with a complete ensuite and kitchenette. They still share one room, but it’s big enough for two beds and a couch in the corner. Chloe decorated the cream walls with some posters, framed photos of the old and new Bellas and a sea blue rug between the beds. Aubrey had strung fairy lights around the roof and got a throw for the couch. It was homely to them, and they both often discussed how much they would miss their little space after graduation.

“Hey, Bree” she greets Aubrey as she passes her, heading to the fridge and grabbing a water. The blonde glances up from her study, giving her a weak smile before dropping her eyes back to the paper. Chloe sighs, she would be kidding herself if she thought this whole thing would be forgotten. Chloe flicks the kettle on and grabs two mugs and two packets of raspberry tea from the tin. Hot tea breaks ice like no other, and it’s as icy as it gets between them now. Aubrey cares about her a lot, and Chloe really appreciates it. It’s not often she throws it back in Aubrey’s face like she did yesterday **and** last night.

She places the cup in front of Aubrey, who mumbles an impassive thank you before Chloe sighs, “Can we talk?” The blonde lids her highlighter with an audible click and places it on top of the paper. She tightens the towel under her arms before sipping her tea, green orbs on cerulean blue.

“Sure Chlo, what’s up?”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe figures she might as well just jump right in, Aubrey is notorious as being terrifying between the Bellas but Chloe knows her pretty well; she appreciates honesty and is calm if you’re straight with her. The blonde holds the eye contact, tucking her hair behind her ear and Chloe knows she is listening, “about yesterday, and last night.”

Aubrey shrugs, “I’m not sure why you’re apologising about last night, it’s not my throat you 'smoked out'.”

“I know, but it wasn’t right. And you- I just-” Chloe splutters, voice thick. She can’t help welling up, it’s a lot to handle. Not only because of the fight, but because of how alone she made herself in the battle. She always aims to face things head on, not dwelling or letting them eat her up inside. And she always shares, never hiding things from Aubrey. It’s them against the world. 

“It’s nodes, Bree. I don’t know what to do, I feel so lost. I have to pull back; I need to figure out what to do with my life now that singing can’t be my everyday career. I-”

The chair scrapes as Aubrey stands, walking around the counter to envelope her in a tight hug. Chloe lets her head fall to the bare chest, sobs raking through her body as Aubrey strokes her hair and coos.

After a considerable amount of time passes, Aubrey taps her neck twice and she extracts herself from the embrace. Her hand is grabbed and she's led around the counter, the blonde pulling out the stool with a scrape. “Chlo, hey. It’ll be okay,” a soft hand pushes on her shoulder and Chloe is forced to sit down before Aubrey places her other hand on her shoulder and lowers her head to look into her eyes. “Look at me. Just-. Take it easy. I found the pamphlets on your bed, and was doing some research on vocal nodules” without breaking eye contact, a nail raps sharply on the paper she was highlighting when Chloe walked in, “it says you need to rest your vocal cords, and when you get the surgery, it might not even change your voice. You could just lose a few octaves, or need to warm up more. It’ll be okay.”

Chloe just nods, Aubrey is really good to her. But it’s a lot and she wants to push it so far from her mind that it disappears forever. She hates being glum, but its taking over; the ropes are thick and she can’t seem to cut herself loose.

“I’m here for you, whatever you need.” Aubrey leans forward, kissing her on the cheek before withdrawing, nose scrunched in distaste, “but I won’t continue to be, if you don’t go and wash off that _stink_.” Chloe gives a watery chuckle, before receiving a slap on the butt and Aubrey sits on the stool and picks up the highlighter, “Go. Shower. For the good of womankind!” 

* * *

 

She squeezes her favourite grapefruit body wash onto the heavy duty exfoliator glove she saves for special occasions and begins to scrub her body, chest first. Chloe  _feels_ dirty. Physically, she knows Aubrey is right, she stinks of sweat from her run. But there’s probaly also smoke and keg beer from last night and (she turns in the shower and shoves her face under the water, embarrassed) the slight smell of sex because of how wet she was ( _oh god_ ). She’s raking her nails into her hair, scrubbing the shampoo deep into her skull. She has to get clean, wash off the night because as of yet, Beca is considered straight.

When they spoke about the birds and the bees and Chloe, Cynthia-Rose said Chloe is probably pansexual and that she should most likely look into it if she really wanted to know. She’s never been sure, and never really been rushed to label it. She just loves **love**. Loves dating, loves meeting someone at a party or a club and kissing strangers on the crowded dancefloor. She’s only had one serious relationship during high school. Only slept with a handful of guys in her college years (Tom for a constant four) and kissed a few girls. Slept with one but _barely_ remembers it. It was during her last ‘stint’ (each time got worse), Beca’s freshman year. She thought that sleeping with a girl would _help_ her get over Beca, but it only made things worse. All she could remember was it being mind-blowing amounts of incredible, and being so fucked up that the girl beneath her flitted between being Beca and being the brunette she hooked up with, Alex.

Chloe turns the shower off and steps out, feet landing on the scraggily bath mat. She can’t think about it; it’ll drive her mad. She’s spent far too long pining for Beca and what could never be. There’s other things she needs to figure out at the time being; like her _life_ and the point of it if one day she can’t sing daily. And the fact that she can’t get the idea of getting off her face out of her head. 

She pads into the kitchen where Aubrey is still seated, now dressed for the day in a beige high neck sweater and some blue jeans. The blonde glares at her towelled body, “You’re dripping all over the tiles, Chloe!” Aubrey jumps a little in her seat as Chloe slams a pad and paper on the bench and begins to make a list. “What’s this?”

Chloe doesn’t glance up from the paper, she’s busy writing some coping mechanisms (run every day, no more drinking, study daily, library in the afternoons), “I can’t go off the rails and have to repeat **another** year, Bree.”

It wasn’t known amongst the Bellas (bar Aubrey and Stacie) that during that precarious time a year ago, Chloe had fudged it all up so bad she hadn’t qualified for graduation. She had the grades, but with a few missing and incomplete assessments that were crucial. Chloe was able to pass it off as failing _one_ subject, Russian Lit. The Bellas understood.

Her pen scratches over the paper, handwriting a loopy incoherent mess as her action plan stumbles from her brain and through the ink cartridge. So much is coming out. So fast. She doesn’t notice Aubrey standing beside her, and is surprised when a manicures hand plucks the gel pen from her tight grasp and places it on the marble bench before holding her cheeks in both hands. Aubrey’s eyes are round and searching and as usual Chloe feels like her best friend can see into her eyes and through to her brain, _reading_ her thoughts. She’s quiet, letting the girl cradling her face probe her mind for whatever she’s looking for before Aubrey speaks, no hint of the often habitual authority found in the tone.

“Is that something you’re struggling with again, C?” the hands drop from her cheeks, one landing on the counter, the other slipping through hers and linking their fingers. Somebody has gathered the Sahara Desert and dumped it in her mouth, Chloe swallows in a desperate attempt to saturate the dry and she’s painfully aware of how her tongue can never really relax. She glances down to the hand in her own, which relinquishes a loving squeeze. Aubrey has beautiful hands: always cold, never clammy. Pianist fingers. “I figured, you know, last night. Stacie mentioned that she’d never seen you smoke before, she’s worried about you, too,” Aubrey hesitates, yet static hazel still examines her, “I _was_ angry, and confused. I couldn’t recall you getting high like that before either. I wasn’t sure where it was situated on the whole… spectrum of how much I should be worried.”

“It’s not-. It’s not like **that**. I just wanted to forget,” she can’t look at Aubrey, ridden with the guilt of their fight, “yesterday was a pretty bad day.”

 “I know, it’s okay. I trusted Beca to take care of you, I hope that wasn’t a mistake.” It isn’t accusatory, only questioning. Chloe nods, she isn’t about to share with Aubrey just how **well** Beca took care of her. That would make it a lot harder to pretend like it didn’t happen. 

Chloe settled on that idea on her run. Beca probably won’t talk about it, and Chloe sure as hell isn’t going to bring it up. That’s how they’ve been, always. Chloe flirting with the brunette until she’s mumbling and red-faced, Beca flirting back and stealing touches behind closed doors. Nothing ever comes from it in fear of losing a best friend and she silently prays to a higher power that last night won’t change that.

Dancing around it works, because Chloe’s feelings don’t bubble over. She worked it to a fine art, running around the campus at dawn, sweating it out in rehearsals, classes and studying hard during the day and sleeping with Tom most nights before crashing into bed with Beca. She is able can stay afloat, focused.

She almost laughs. Focused on what? A gust of dark smoke billows into her chest and permeates. She feels hopeless. Chloe needs to seriously regroup and figure out what the hell she’s going to do with her life, needs to face the whole vocal nodules thing like an adult and not let herself get pulled down.

But she has a report to finish first. The majority of the morning and better part of the day is spent at her desk, bouncing ideas off Aubrey about her complex deconstruction of Robert Frost’s poem, The Road Less Taken and making notes because she can’t seem to concentrate. She loves literature. It was at an early age that Chloe really began to appreciate learning, and has always felt there’s no better way to learn about _anything_ , fact or fiction, than reading. She likes writing too, but her studies were always to take her into Editing, just like her father.

No word to her parents, editing was only supposed to be a backup if the whole teaching children to sing or just singing in any shape or form of a career didn’t work out. No point doing that if she is basically mute, only able to perform a little a day. Chloe placidly sets her pen down, bringing her elbows to the desk top to rub her temples; study isn’t enough. Not _nearly_ enough to get her mind off everything.

After tucking a loose strand behind her ear, she swivels her chair around, about to head to the counter to grab her notepad from before. She’s ready to write it out, really get into the nitty-gritty of a new plan. Chloe isn’t really ready to move on from a singing career, but she can’t wallow, it wouldn’t be _her_ (that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel miserable).

Before she can take a single step, Aubrey intersects her route to kitchen, bounding down on her bed to pull her trainers on. _Shit._ She glances at her watch, is it time for rehearsal already? (2:43pm). She had spent the entire day thinking about Frost and his metaphorical forks she lost track of the time. It’s probably for the best, and rehearsals always cheer her up (Beca will be there) and this way she can y’know, face reality later on.

She’s promptly stripping her clothes off when Aubrey interrupts, shaking her head, “Nuh uh.”

What? Chloe muses, no changing? She was wearing fluffy, blue and purple spotted pyjama pants and her Minnie-Mouse singlet. Sure, she’s worn some questionable outfits at rehearsals before (especially during exam block), but how does Aubrey expect her to run laps in these? And without a bra? 

Aubrey must sense her confusion, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s standing clad _only_ in her briefs, arms bundling her comfy clothes with a gaping mouth. “You’re not coming to rehearsals today. I mean it, Chloe. You’re going to stay here, rest your voice. We’re learning a new set to Beca’s Frank Ocean and co. mix,” blonde hair is pulled into a tight bun, “and I know you don’t want to hear it and I know I’m not the boss of you,” Aubrey’s hands are in the air, her voice mocking a speech Chloe has given her time and time again, “but I care about you. You know you need to take some time off, but you won’t. You’ll push and push because you always put 100% in to everything, no matter the consequences to yourself. I love your passion, Chlo, I really do, but this is different. You’re meant to take the lead on At Last, but I’m going to teach Emily and I’ll show you the choreo next week.”

She feels like a child, her foot almost leaves the carpet to stomp back down before she stops it, “Aubrey! I just want-”

“No way, Beale. You can meet us for food later,” A strained cry leaves her throat in protest, not that different to the call of a wild animal, “and yes, I _will_ let Beca know that you’re okay.  Make some more tea and rest your body **and** your mind, Chloe. It’s aca-important!” She calls the last command out over her shoulder, closing the door behind her. The dorm is soundless, empty and Chloe is left standing next to her bed, half naked with a quivering lip.

It was only yesterday. _Yesterday._ A simple, foundational diagnosis of vocal nodules with a couple of pamphlets on treatment and how her voice wouldn’t change _that_ much. Just limited in range and use. But so much had changed already. Chloe sits on the bed, about ready to climb under the covers and sleep the afternoon away. No Bellas rehearsals, hooking up with Beca in her bed, her entire hopes and dreams swirling down the drain in her after-run shower. She swipes away a fallen tear. It’s a different emotion, on top of the usual bleakness she feels concerning unrequited love and being constantly stepped on by Aubrey as a co-leader. It’s inside of her, _because_ of her. Unchangeable, pressing.

It’s with the unembellished truth that it is all so unyielding and so very unalterable that she feels a change. Nodes are now out of her control and ever **there** , rubbing together with every note she sings, every word she speaks. Aubrey’s reassurances and Beca’s little whispers are distorted. Her sadness shifts like tectonic plates beneath the earth’s crust, anger building up like bile in her throat and she drops the clothes to the ground as she half rises; Chloe is over being told what she can and can’t do. She knows it’s a childish response to people caring about her (definitely a "Beca" reaction, as Aubrey would chime) but her head is overcrowded with commanding voices and opinions: the doctor, Aubrey, her mother, all talking over the top of each other trying to steer her in the ‘right’ direction.

It isn’t often that she gets to act on her impulses, or feel the way she _wants_ to feel. She isn’t allowed to use her voice too much. She has to rest. She needs a viable career reserve and she has to get the best GPA. She loves Beca, and Beca doesn’t love her back.  Aubrey never lets her have more than one Eskimo pie after dinner and even dessert is only allowed on a Sunday. Not being able to pinpoint the exact time everyone else took the reins from her, Chloe wants to be in control of herself again. Immediately.

She stands. The dorm room is still silent apart from determined breathing, her chest painted with a swirl of the darkest blue and a pool of livid red. Chloe is angry, but she doesn’t want to be alone. She can’t be. She needs a distraction from the excruciatingly loud babbling in her brain or she might do something she will regret once she’s come down from the reverberating earthquake inside of her.

Fumbling in the bed covers, Chloe finds her phone and sends a single text to one of the only people who never tries to control her (“ **free for a few hours this afternoon**?”) before changing into something sexier than Disney themed pyjamas and slipping on an outfit appropriate for walking across campus on a Sunday.

Chloe doesn’t wait for a response (she’s not waiting for anyone, anymore) and shrugs her coat on before the phone chimes from her pocket. Not bothering to reply, she slams the door shut behind her, hastily shoving her phone in her back pocket with the screen still unlocked and text left open.

Tom, received 3:12pm.

            **Anytime for you, Chlo. You know where to find me.**  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter won't take as long, I'm on a roll.  
> Message me here, tumblr (fiilth, thatsmy-dick) if you have feedback, criticisms, recipes to share.  
> Em x


	7. Still Unbeaten Life

Rehearsals have always caused unease to run through Beca’s veins and pool in the bottom of her stomach. 

And for the past year, it’s only been amplified.

In just over a month, Aubrey will be graduating her Masters. Hopefully Chloe will graduate too, if all goes to plan. Particulars of the redhead’s repeated year following a failed core subject had been cloudy, questions from Beca and the other Bellas hastily brushed away by a change of topic or unanswered text. The reluctance for Chloe to elaborate was incongruous, yet not being one to prod someone who didn’t _want_ to be pushed, Beca surrendered; the topic wasn’t up for discussion. As she stands side to side with her fellow Bellas, running idly through their upcoming choreography she can’t help but think she should maybe ask Chloe about it all again. It rattles precariously in Beca’s chest, the awareness that Chloe hasn’t always been honest with her, the idea that she has a life away from Beca.

Two weeks after the graduation ceremony, the team will again compete at the ICCAs for Aubrey and Chloe’s final performance as captains. Beca will become the chief (she plans on asking Emily to co-captain. And it wouldn’t be _Beca_ if she wasn’t crapping her pants at all times inside of the gym, and when she gets back to her dorm. She’s anxious about the pressure Aubrey purposely puts on her about continuing to carry the legacy of the Barden Bellas, but she’s also nervous about Chloe graduating.

It’s been two years and Beca hasn’t mustered the courage to tell Chloe that she is maybe _definitely_ in love with her. When the rare moment strikes where Beca is brave enough, she gets jammed in a cyclic loop of finding the moment, going to speak and being held back by two things. The first is the cryptic sex _thing_ that Chloe has had with Tom since their first year at Barden, a guy who is levels upon levels more attractive than Beca. He also y’know, has a dick; an extended limb that the brunette wasn’t blessed with during her time in the womb. Secondly, she’s afraid of losing her best friend, because even though she’s pretty sure Chloe feels _something_ for Beca, there’s always the slim chance she doesn’t. 

And she’s somewhat scared of that, because Chloe was the first and only person she let cut her open and take her heart. Beca isn’t sure she knows how to function as an emotionally functioning human being without her best friend. She hasn’t been able to fully give the scalpel to anyone else; Jesse has walked around in her chest, and the Bellas have taken a microscopic peak.

And that’s enough for her.

She is similar to her Mom like that. The resemblances were limited; it was mostly physical. Eyes a synthesis of steel blue and grey that were weather contingent, chestnut brown hair and a tiny frame (it’s no surprise that her father didn’t look at her for six months after she died). They shared little in common inside, but both of the Mitchell women were stubborn, closed off and brashly hidden beneath a smirk and a wink, terrified of pain (although Beca isn’t sure if **that** was there before her Mom’s death).

For Sarah Mitchell it was a well-practiced façade; pride and obstinacy vanquished reaching out in her sequestered darkness, always _pretending_ around doctors and family friends, and refracting her husband’s desperate attempts to support her and help her get clean.

Sometimes Beca will awaken in the middle of the night, a scream building in her chest and rattling the windows, only to be quietened by a hand over her mouth; sometimes her own, sometimes Chloe’s (she doesn’t ask anymore). The dark nightmare of the body unfurled on cold tiles, flecks of dry blood track from her nose, down across her cheeks and past the foam at the corners of her mouth still cedes Beca to float through some days in a stupor.

It took Beca four years after the most harrowing day of her life to realise that being stubborn can inadvertently kill you. Half way through her first year at Barden, and one too many nights of loneliness after a falling out with the Bellas, Beca found strength in acquiescence. Tail between her legs, but head and heart strong, she had walked back into the rehearsal and pleaded with Aubrey and Chloe to let her back in. They were her family now, and she will be damned if she lets **this** family fall apart.

From that day, she decided to _care._ Care about things, about people and about _herself_. Beca wasn’t sure if it was the Bellas, or Chloe’s tenacity that made her think she actually deserved to feel and ‘make connections with people’ as her Dad often quipped, but she genuinely tries. Always. To remain open. To give people the time of day. To ask questions about anything and anyone.

It’s the entire reason why, after learning that Chloe was _not_ coming to rehearsal for the first time in her entire Bella career, Beca had sent her numerous amounts of texts to see if she was okay (if Chloe was hurting, Beca wanted to _be there_ ) _._ But so far her messages had been ignored, and Beca was beginning to feel as if that was on purpose, an outcome of their intense ‘caressing’ just the night before.

And it’s distressing, how she’s feeling. Beca is vexed, confused and a little upset. She feels _off._ She can’t find it in herself to make self-deprecating jokes or defy Aubrey’s authority just for kicks.  With countless stumbles, she messes up the steps and tries not to think about the fact that it’s probably due to the absence of a certain mischievous girl guiding her movements.

Aubrey had turned up at Sunday’s rehearsals at 3pm on the dot, sans roommate. Some divine Omnipotent must have piloted her feet when Beca found herself standing, receiving a sideways frown from Stacie when she didn’t say _anything_ for _over a minute_. Fortunately, Aubrey understood, explaining that Chloe was not joining them in the gym today as she was too hungover. Beca had mechanically lowered herself back to a seated position, confused. She knew Chloe had sobered up the night before, and had even _left_ Beca in her bed to ‘go for a run’ at the crack of dawn.

“Um, excuse me Cap? No one else is allowed to have rehearsals off just because they’re hungover,” Amy uses her hands when she speaks, signalling the motion of a slide when she interrupted Beca’s musings, “Not even if someone say… managed to get their pants set on fire because they slipped over in a self-constructed mud puddle and clipped their leg on the bonfire. Just as an example.” The girls quietly snicker at the memory; Amy had turned up exactly 15 minutes late the following day in her underwear, a large brown patch up her pink rhinestone top clad with only a pair of white tennis shoes. Upon instruction, Chloe had run to the dorm to get her a sarong to wear as Aubrey forced Amy to do burpees.

“Fat Amy, I shouldn’t have to remind **you** that Chloe is your captain. She is here, every single session, planning our choreo and giving us all the support we need to be the best. Should I bring up that time she did the _impossible_ and showed you how to crump appealingly? Or the fact that she stocks a few pairs of your underwear in the storage room for emergency situations? Or even that time she took away your four-day-old fried chicken that you lost than proceeded to  _find_  behind the piano that could’ve killed you? If she needs a day off, she gets it. Without complaint. Show her and myself some respect.”

The Bellas were quiet, it was rare for Aubrey to speak about her co-captain with such exposed adornment. Amy salutes, chest bulging in sarcastic patriotism before falling back in her seat, “Right on.” When the captain turns around, Amy cups a hand around her mouth, murmuring something rather brashly about ‘100% of the leadership here having a weak stomach’ before miming zipping her mouth shut after a glare from Aubrey.

They had run through the steps _with_ music **once** before Aubrey called it quits, a hand propped on her hip, the other tousling matted blonde. Emily had fallen face first onto the acrylic flooring of the gymnasium and was now seated with a tissue pressed into her bloody nose by Stacie, the older Bella rubbing her back soothingly.

“Bring it in, Bellas!” Aubrey claps her hands together, frustrated and weariness etched deep into her face, “Tomorrow and Tuesday we start vocals. I know we don’t usually need two full sessions to run through, but this mash up is a little more complex than before and I’m convinced it will push us ahead of those cockmunching, cheesedick Trebles.” A high pitched squeak comes from Emily before Jessica is covers the Legacy’s ears and scowls at Aubrey, who resumes her commands without batting a lid.

“Lily can show you two,” clasped hands to gesture to Ashley and Flo, “what she needs regarding infill percussion. Emily, honey _don’t_ – Stacie are you or are you not pre-med? Tip her head _back_. Step up Pitches, get your gear and we will grab smoothies. Beca and I will catch up with you guys at Boost.”

Beca falters; _Seriously?_ She was sweaty, sore and wanted to get out of rehearsals to call or see Chloe as soon as possible. What did Aubrey _want_?

Rowdy Bellas clear the auditorium/gym combination, leaving Aubrey and Beca alone, the latter standing awkwardly with arms crossing her abdomen as as her captain collects strewn notes from the rehearsal. It’s a combination of wanting to stop carrying herself so gawkily and wanting to move things along (she wants a banana blitz, okay?), that surges Beca forward, collecting the far-flung sheet music scripted by Chloe. She can’t help but smile at the little notes and labels of solos and choreo scrawled in looped cursive above the staves.

Beca is brought out of her reverie by a single cough; Aubrey stands in front of her with her hand out, waiting for the paper.

"So,” her voice is hesitant against her will as she passes over the music. It’s not that they’re not close, or that she hasn’t been alone with Aubrey before – there’s been countless nights in captain’s dorm where they’ve worked into early hours of the morning, Chloe dozing in Beca’s lap after passing out from a sugar-induced coma an hour earlier. It’s the non-verbal communication they shared over Chloe’s absence an hour ago before that makes her cautious. Aubrey might want to _discuss_ the night before, whether it’s the details of Chloe’s past, or the fact that Beca had essentially _humped_ her best friend not 14 hours before, “What is going on, what is happening in that beautiful, blonde noggin.”

(God, she’s so _fricken_ awkward)

“Beca,” Aubrey is in front of her with folders clasped in her arms, and although she’s usually quite serious, Beca can’t remember the last time she looked _solemn_ or even concerned, especially towards her, “Are you okay?”

It’s not a question that Aubrey has asked before and is so _not_ what she thought was coming that she’s spluttering, tongue suddenly too big for her mouth. “I-, what?”

“Well,” Aubrey places the binders onto the black piano before resting her arms across the polished wood and motioning to Beca with a smirk, “It’s not exactly unusual, but you look like crap.” The playful sneer falls, “You seem off, and I know that dancing isn’t exactly your strong point, but I haven’t seen you mess up so badly since Ace of Spades. I guess I’m just wondering if something is going on with you other than whatever Chloe is preoccupied with at the moment.” 

Beca nods, and in the spur of the moment and Aubrey’s prompting, she feels brave.

She had been mulling the conversation that she was about to attempt over and over in her head that morning. 

Tomorrow is the five-year anniversary of her Mom’s suicide, and in the interest of her wellbeing and wanting to _not_ relegate her feelings onto her friends, she plans to spend the majority of the day asleep instead of rehearsing. She grasps Aubrey’s vulnerability and care as an opening, “I-, yeah. I actually meant to ask you something, Aubrey.”

“Oh?” green eyes widen as Aubrey tweaks her head to the side and it’s not surprising, Beca never _asks_ her for anything; she usually just _does_ it.

Beca takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, something that’s almost a reflex when she’s exposing herself. “Okay. I’m going to tell you something because you’re the captain of this team and therefore I need to ask your permission or whatever. It’s not because I want to like, _share_ or talk about things any further than this request.” Request being the most appropriate word, as she thinks Aubrey is only a few snapped pencils away from making the Bellas submit pages of paperwork just to take a day off, “Tomorrow is the anniversary of my mom’s death and I was wondering if I could take some personal leave from rehearsal.”

Her vulnerability is met with silence and Beca opens her eyes to check if Aubrey didn’t leave the moment she closed them. The blonde’s expression before her can only be labelled as stunned, mouth slightly opened and eyes squinting in apprehension. Quiet, listening.

“And I know Chloe took today off and tomorrow is important because we’re vocalising and distributing lines but I _seriously_ don’t think I will be much of a contribution. Last year it fell on a Saturday and-”

Blonde ringlets bounce as her captain composes herself with a knowing nod, “We never rehearse on Saturdays.”

Beca shrugs, “Exactly. So I didn’t have to ask but-”

A graceful hand palms the air, Aubrey silencing the seemingly unrelenting chatter, “Of course.”

In one collected movement, Aubrey stands upright and makes her way around the piano and over to the brunette. Beca notably cringes, praying she isn’t about to be _hugged_ (she’s better, but physical contact is still a bit far). Her qualms are quickly diminished when Aubrey stops, cautiously placing a smooth palm on her forearm.

“I’ll set up a video link and send you a copy tomorrow night,” there’s a grip on pale skin before Aubrey bows her head to look into Beca’s eyes, “Please don’t shut the girls out, which I know is hard for the emotionally stunted pain in my ass that you are,” they can barely have a conversation with a few insults thrown into the mix or one might think they were _good_ _friends_ , “at least let Chloe help you or distract you because you don’t have to do tomorrow alone.”

Although she knows Aubrey means the best and only wants to help, she can’t help the shake of her head at the mention of Chloe’s name, “No. Dude, please don’t tell her.”

Aubrey’s face is painted with chaste bewilderment, “Who? Chloe?”

She can’t help the sigh that escapes out of her nose, nodding. “I know, it’s unfair of me to ask. But can you just- Please don’t tell Chloe. About any of it, okay?” 

“Beca.” The tone is simultaneously startled yet laced with warning.

“Aubrey.” she can’t help but be bold (see: coping mechanisms), “I know she’s vulnerable and that’s no reason to hide things but I don’t talk about this, I _can’t._ ” Beca decided early this morning that she wouldn’t see Chloe tomorrow, based solely on the way her best friend had been and what she had told her the night before.

It goes against any stereotype the blonde is renowned for when Beca’s appeal is accepted without argument, “Okay. We won’t talk about it any longer. And I _promise_ I won’t tell Chloe, unless she directly asks. But I just want to say one thing.” Aubrey takes a deep breath and Beca groans; another lecture.

“Chloe is a lot like you, Beca. I know you two seem like fire and ice, but when either of you have something going wrong in your lives, you rarely reach out for help. She puts on a happy exterior in contrast to your uncontrollable aggression, but like you she runs from things, only more _literally._

“I know she told you about the episodic substance abuse.” Beca’s heart hurls into her throat at the syntax, “It’s a big step for Chloe to be as vulnerable with you as she was last night and as compliant with me about needing to recover, emotionally.” Beca attempts to speak, but is again stifled by a hand, “I can’t tell you what’s going on, but it isn’t good. And it might get worse. _However_ , it’s going to hurt her even more if you don’t let her at least _help_ you tomorrow, okay? Give her a chance, we all know she’s a bit pushy with sharing and cuddles, but she really loves you, and the girl knows when not to pry. I’m guessing you know that, considering you’ve been in each other’s pockets for almost two years now and she told me your Mom is the one thing you are adamant to not talk about.”

Beca’s brain goes into overdrive at the diverse _mass_ of things Aubrey just crammed into her speech. The virtually _clinical_ description of Chloe favour for party drugs, that fact that Chloe is _not_ as okay as she pretends to be about not talking about Beca’s mom, and that the redhead loves her (she knew it, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else).

With a jolt she remembers the blonde in front of her, and although the mechanical whirring in her head is only starting to slow, she manages a responsive nod. It’s odd, how she feels both warm and cold. Beca is second guessing her decision not to let Chloe help her out, afraid it would be too much on the redhead’s plate. Aubrey words bounce around her brain and Beca makes the connection between making Chloe feel the way Beca feels with this whole actually-barely-knowing-her-best-friend-and-or-soul-mate thing. And hey, there’s a chance Chloe might curl up in bed with her.

Aubrey replies to her nod with a curt tilt of her own head, before motioning Beca towards the door and starting to buzz about the set. Beca only half listens, thoughts fixed on her AWOL best friend. It does, however, feel nicer to have Aubrey on her side (although she would never admit it out loud).

* * *

 

The next morning her alarm blares. The whole purpose of the device is pointless as she’s already awake, having a fitful night of contorted dreams.

Beca feels even worse than she thought possible, swiping off the alarm before slamming down the phone. It’s quiet now, the rustle of the sheets resonates around the room when she shuffles deeper under the quilt, turning into the wall. 

Words have never been her forte (sounds work better) and it’s tough to describe how truly _shit_ she feels. A few perplexing words filter through her mind; comatose, glum, hollow, down-in-the-dumps. It’s like someone has strapped her to the deepest part of the ocean floor, opaque water pushing her into the relentless sand for days on end. It’s the same each year; sadness, anger, defiance. A fracture lacerates deep within her chest. She hasn’t eaten since the half of the smoothie she slurped down yesterday afternoon, but she’s not hungry. Her stomach twists low and imminent, thick and awry with woe. 

She thinks about the day before, desperate to change the course of her thoughts. Chloe didn’t meet them at Boost, but they exchanged a few messages at night. Chloe mentioned she was sorry and okay, that _they_ were okay, but she had needed to rest. Beca understood, and heeding Aubrey’s advice, mentioned today, notifying Chloe that she would be spending the day alone in bed, most likely unobtainable by phone.

Again she surrenders to a fitful sleep. Not before switching off her phone, however; messages from her family and friends who were aware (even Aubrey) remaining unread. Jesse comes over at some point in the morning, sinking down on the mattress and patting her awkwardly on the knee when he sees her eyes flicker open. It’s out of her control when tears escape, dripping sideways across her nose and onto the dark red pillow. Jesse grimaces, squeezing Beca’s spindly shoulder before she’s asleep again. After she drifts off, he leaves and when she briefly reawakens, Beca is glad she has him. She welcomed his visit, the drinks, the offer to talk, but there’s a line that Jesse seldom crosses and today is no exception.

Sometimes, but not often, her thoughts swirl and congregate to the pivotal point where Beca thinks she might deserve the pain as punishment. The mantra is cyclical; she should’ve known better, done more. She resents her Mom for leaving her, her Dad for not taking it seriously and even more herself for trusting them both. For ripping her world into two. It’s paradoxical, that her Mom’s suicide sometimes makes her want to die. It’s merely a response to the pain, the candid blankness and guilt that intermingles with a wretched agony that has ripped deep within her soul for half a decade.

Beca stirs when the mattress dips. A pair of warm hands slide under her shirt, around her abdomen and tightly embrace. Familiar lips press gently to the back of her neck and the knot in Beca’s stomach begins to unravel. The vivid scent of white lilac and vetiver floods her nook between the bed and the wall, more kisses pepper down her neck, across her shoulders and back. Each and every kiss untangles another knot inside of her, and something within her stirs.

It’s enough to break her, because lately she can _feel_ Chloe slipping from her fingers and a sliver of fear has lined the walls of her chest since Friday. Her insides curl, and again her stomach is being wrung like a rag as the pain immerses her, a loud sob escaping from beneath a snagged lip.

It’s the importance of the day that has her turning away from the wall and into Chloe. The pain of losing her Mom returns, forlorn cries muffled by Chloe’s chest and she can’t stand the thought of having it all happen again. Losing the person who she gave her entire heart to the moment she finally unearthed it again. This time around, it would probably kill her. Stiff lids open, the light from the recently opened window scorch the whites of her eyes. Chloe snags her lip under her teeth, gaze strong with clout. The long-sleeved, cream knit clings to flexed biceps as Chloe’s arms wind around her own body and pull her close. Her head is folded beneath the other’s chin and Beca is thinking something that she already knew; she will do everything in her power to protect the one she loves.

Her tears fall freely, silently. Beca ducks her head from under Chloe to look at her best friend. There isn’t a part of Chloe that she doesn’t love, inside or out. Again, something takes over her body and she feels her hand reaching, tracing a thumb along an almost carved jowl. It’s almost eternal, Beca’s infatuation with Chloe’s jaw and everything that surrounds it. The shape of her neck, smooth skin that transforms when Chloe swallows, eyes fluttering closed at her touch. Reassuring circles are rubbed at the dip of her spine as Beca continues to _feel_ Chloe. Little bumps are raised along the path she traces; from Chloe’s clavicle and up to her shoulder, along the back of her neck and across her cheek to rest on slightly parted lips. Cerulean orbs that make Beca feel like home have reopened, baring into her soul with a stare. Four or five outlines of the lips under her thumb have been sketched before Chloe leans in, hesitantly.

Faint freckles dust like constellations across the bridge of the nose that runs up and down side of her own before resting. The smooth skin of their foreheads is pressed tight, mouth so close their breaths mingle and Beca is unquestionably comfortable with the close space (she almost always is with Chloe these days). Lips join and it feels almost facile; something small inside of Beca snaps and colour spreads, seeping from her mouth, down her throat and into the perpetual greyness in her chest. The kiss is deep, lips slightly open and firmly moving against one another. A trembling sigh escapes her when it ends, only to have lips continue languidly across her cheek and towards her ear.

The murmur against her hair is almost soundless, “Becs?”

“Mm?” it’s all she can muster, throat gridlocked from not speaking for almost half a day. Her face is folded into the nape of Chloe’s neck, breathing in and imagining the scent thawing her frozen insides. The arms around her tighten before one hand slides to her hip, grounding her as Chloe kisses her hair. 

“Are you okay? Can I-” Chloe’s other arm struggles under the brunette’s slackened body. Beca attempts to push herself off the mattress to make room for wherever it’s headed, only to realise Chloe has persevered, fingers now bound firmly around the back of her neck, pulling her hopelessly closer, “Can I do anything to make this better?” There’s a moment of hesitation, “Did you want to talk?”

Beca begins to cry again (she wasn’t aware she had _stopped_ ). It’s heedless and almost _excruciating_ as she hurls the admission into Chloe’s neck, “My Mom didn’t just die. She killed herself, and I wasn’t there to keep her alive.”

Whispered consolations are barely heard over Beca’s cries, diminutive whispers disappearing into her hair as she’s coaxed, back against the wall. Now pressed between the plasterboard and the redhead, Beca feels completely and entirely _swathed_ as Chloe kisses all over her tear stained face and lips. The bright blue eyes glistened with silent tears, mirroring Beca’s own.

Intangible time lapses and Beca feels drained but shielded, hidden from her past and the world outside by the redhead whose warm body is flush against her own. Something tugs on the strings in her heart and she is almost afraid to sleep, afraid that she will wake up alone again. But her eyes are weary, dropping as she is consumed by the untiring tangle of fingers in the snarl of hair at the base of her neck that are somewhat like a lullaby. Heavy lids fall in finality, immersing her in a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something little to keep you going.  
> I tried to clarify things time wise. Remember after the first two chapters, its a lead up from three weeks earlier. The third chapter was a Saturday, and this one is set the Monday after. I will be more conscious of cohesion regarding time in the upcoming chapters.  
> Thank you everyone for your compliments and criticisms, they mean the world that you all take the time out to help me out!  
> Feel free to leave a comment or contact me on tumblr,  
> Em x


	8. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter.  
> I've been adding and deleting for a week now and I just can't wrap my head around it properly.  
> But I need to move on and progress, so take it with a grain of salt.

Beads of sweat glisten beneath a red hairline, her hands are thrown unceremoniously into the hazy air that suspends above the dancefloor of the club. The grip at her waist is virile, Tom pulls her closer against his chest before she turns and backs into him. It’s almost dominating, the way he tugs at her skin, fingers gripping exposed skin above her leather skirt where her camisole has risen. Chloe’s body is flush against his, her fingers tangle at the back of Tom’s neck and tug at taupe hair as lips and teeth seize an assertive course down her neck. 

It’s almost too easy, to melt into him and forget the way she feels.

The taste of tequila inhabits her mouth as Tom withdraws from where his front had been grinding on her ass, fingers fasten between Chloe’s and he’s dragging her off the dancefloor and towards the exit with a sultry wink. His hand squeezes hers as they weave through the crowd of heaving bodies and stumble out into the cold night.

“Where are we going?” she’s giggling as Tom rounds the corner and stops in a vacant passageway at the back of the club, twirling and spinning her like a ballerina before pulling her close with a kiss. She loves moment’s like these; Tom’s lips are twisted into a drunken grin as he smoothly yet vigorously pushes her against the brick wall. His hand is on the cool brick; ready, acting as a cushion for Chloe’s head as it is shoved back. Hot lips collide with her jaw and move down her neck before Tom leans back.

“You’re so beautiful,” his other hand grips her hip, thumb brushing on bare skin before he kisses her again. It’s so easy with him. Simple. It’s rare that Chloe will think about their dynamic, just appreciates their time together and tries not to think.

In the isolation of the narrow lane between the two, tall buildings in the frozen night, Tom reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a clear baggie.  Four small, blue pills rest humbly at the bottom and her chest constricts.

“Do you mind if I take one?” his question is earnest, and she’s hardly surprised; it’s methodical for them. When they go out for some fun, Chloe will have a few drinks and Tom will too. Some nights his roommate, Ryan and his girlfriend, Brodie will join them. She can count on two hands how many times Tom, Ryan and Brodie have taken drugs at the club while she’s there, not pushing or pressing when she says no, or shakes her drink and winks before saying, “I’m good.” 

It always turns out to be a good night, no matter who is on what. As long as the vibe is fun and comfortable, and Chloe is in reasonable control of her body, she has a good time.

Tonight, however, feels different. The dark and burning mass that twitches and twists deep within her has only tumefied with each day, and Chloe momentarily considers a change of pace.

It’s as if the moment she had left Beca’s dorm the morning after her Mom’s death-day, Chloe’s devised efforts to keep her own head above water had sunk far beyond her grasp.

It was a guileless blend of a series of events that were positioned like stepping stones towards the path of her own self destruction. She had fled to Tom after Aubrey had ousted her from Sunday’s rehearsals with the intention of losing herself in him, in someone who treated her as a whole; a being at the disposal of her own autonomy.

The morning after, she headed to the auditorium. Aubrey had kept her up the front with her, loudly explaining that she wanted her beside her for once, needing her help addressing the magnitude of the performance before they attempted a full run through. It depressed her, standing up the front besides Aubrey and _managing_ instead of _practising._ At any other time, Chloe would have felt reputable, like that was how it was supposed to be.

Because she knew it was all a front, a ruse to cover up the undisclosed obtrusions manifesting in her throat from the other Bellas. Shame and loathing swirled in her stomach on her way to Beca’s, only to be replaced by an almost _sorrowful tenderness_ upon opening the door. All previous assurances and vows Chloe had made to forget what had happened between them went out the door the moment she saw the brunette. Something inside of her unravelled at the frigid stillness of the dorm, cold and empty despite the body snuggled deep under the quilt. Beca didn’t stir as she entered, or as she changed into the clothes she had brought at the possibility that she needed to stay overnight. Chloe was glad she had slipped the warmer items on as she slid under the quilt and wrapped her arms around a cold and aloof body; wilted and passive to Chloe as she pulled them closer together. She couldn’t help but to place kisses at the base of Beca’s neck, on the inner of her bare back and atop the milky, trembling shoulder. She only wanted to mend, to stitch obscure wounds back together with a kiss the way Beca had done for her. 

Tuesday morning, she had left, confident that the half smile reinstated on Beca’s face would stick at least while she attended her Comparative Lit lecture. She barely made it twenty minutes, barely able to concentrate, mind running a million miles an hour at the chaotic quandary of what was the last four days.

Vocal nodules, the fact that Aubrey didn’t ask where she had been Sunday night, that there was no discussion about her hindered participation in rehearsals. Why Beca hadn’t told her that her Mom killed herself, how they seemed impossibly closer yet further apart than ever before as friends and whatever they were doing by _kissing_ each other. That she should stop fooling around with Tom if Beca was _in_ to her. How much she should pull her head of her ass and just _ask_ Beca. If Beca was okay, and if she had noticed that Chloe was hiding something from her. The upcoming appointment, the impending surgery, the need to disclose said surgery to her parents and friends, the fact that she might not be able to compete in their very last championship. The possibility that Chloe might fail her last year _again_ if she didn’t get it together.

It was too much, too many consequences for actions that felt so far out of Chloe’s control that she had to leave. She had headed for the closest bathroom before slamming her back against the cubicle door with a shaking hand covering her mouth, suffocating whimpers and sobs before they could escape, chest concaving before dialling Beca with shaken hands.

It was on the third attempt that she remembered Beca was working at the station, and after a ‘no stress’ text, Chloe tried the next best thing.

Casual sex with Tom had been many things for Chloe. It was passionate, intense fucking with no strings attached; a genuine college experience. It was comfort, familiarity, an indulgence between friends. It was a distraction from unrequited love, a way to destress after a lengthy exam.

And tonight, with her arms thrown languidly around Tom’s neck as he clutches her sides, the small, translucent bag fluttering uncaringly against her waist in the cold wind, it was interference and distraction.

She appreciates his thoughtfulness at the question (she doesn’t _own_ him), and nods. Tom stands close, alcohol stained breaths intermingling as he reaches into the bag before she asks, “Where do you buy these anyway?”

His head jerks up, a boyish grin embracing his dimly freckled lips, eyes impossibly dark in the shadow the alley, “I thought you knew. Jesse’s good friend, that Treble that should _definitely_ be in the High Notes, Max.” He chuckles candidly and Chloe laughs too, albeit half-hearted as her thoughts wander a path of their own.

Max? It made sense. Jesse and Bumper always got their weed from _somewhere_ , and Max was usually stoned. She can picture his face at the party from the other night, knitted beanie perched on messy hair, laughing as Jesse pass over the joint. She didn’t know he indulged in anything other than pot.

He was so happy-go-lucky. So was Jesse, Beca, Amy, Bumper and even Tom. No strings, no pressures that Chloe was flattened by from almost everyone in her life. They could do _whatever_ they wanted. 

Something churns at her centre and Chloe is momentarily stumped before it clicks. The green and black snake coils around her ribs and gnaws; she _envies_ them. They have this effortless ability to run free without the _oppression_ she often feels from Aubrey, her Mom and Dad, _herself._ It’s seems like a dream, a fictitious fantasy only contemplated in a deep sleep.

Tonight, it seems millimetres beyond her reach, inching closer and closer by the contents between Tom’s forefinger and thumb.

It’s with this thought, drunkenly jumbled with the pressure to stifle the ever unfurling shadow inside of her that has progressed from a seed sized obstruction to an undulated cord, wrapping around her spine and _pulling_ that causes the change. Chloe lightly grips the arm of his khaki jacket, “wait.”

Tom knits his eyebrows in transient confusion and Chloe hopes that his silence means he is yet to swallow. She slips a hand around the back of his neck and leans in to his now grin; aware. Moisten lips open at the kiss and Chloe slides her tongue idly onto his own to rest atop the obstruction. There’s a shift, and its Tom’s tongue that twists, transferring the pill to Chloe before he retreats to take his own. 

She dry swallows the pill and tries not to think as Tom winks and begins to lead them back inside the deafening, humid club.

* * *

Bodies coalesce, some bump accidentally as they pass, heading to the bathroom or to the bar. Some sway in a drunken haze, sporadic to the beat of the song playing from the tall speakers hanging in the corner of roof above the open floor.

And, like the majority of the masses, Chloe dances, arms carelessly thrown above her head, hips both indiscriminate and to the beat of the music as they sway and she can only cogitate two things; the ubiquity of her body in the universe and how it twists and responds to the deep base of the club. The sound thunders, reverberating and rattling her bones with each note. 

“Going okay?”

Tom murmurs into her hair and she nods; it _is_ going okay. A white cloth coats the obscurity within her as Chloe feels the full effect of the MDMA she swallowed over an hour ago. The charcoal materialisation is a photograph that transpires briefly in the forefront in her mind before it falls, flames bleeding and burning the edges of the picture that eventually dissolves into thin air.

Euphoria, invulnerability and autonomy meld as one within her body and she feels notably better than she has all week, maybe _ever._ Tom’s grip around her waist is strong, and as she pulls him closer, warm arms enclose around her frame and embrace, her nails grazing into the roots of his hair with a pull. Both laugh into the kiss and Chloe can only marvel at the simplicity of connecting lips that sparks electricity within her.

_If this is how it feels kissing Tom on MDMA_ , _imagine how good it would feel with Beca._

She hasn’t thought about Beca for more than an hour ( _forever_ for Chloe), and the abrupt restitution of the younger girl in her thoughts almost grinds her to a halt. 

She internally struggles to set fire to the thought that Beca would be disappointed in her but to no avail; her embodied bleakness rips at the cloth’s seams and escapes as a wisp of air at the same time that Tom withdraws, jerking his head towards the glowing sign that indicates the bathroom behind the bar.

Chloe signals the go ahead and is led to the unisex stall within the grimy bathroom, locking the door behind them. The door rattles on its hinges as Chloe is slammed against it, nails gripping into the top of the man’s shoulders who is kissing and biting heedlessly along her jaw. 

If it was any other time and Chloe was closer to being sober, she would notice that her grip might be hurting Tom. But she is far from abstinent; she’s impulsive, her thoughts unchaste and coarse. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction, the nails embedded deep-seated in skin and a lengthy moan exhaled besides brown hair as Tom roughly palms her breasts before reaching swiftly beneath her black v neck and tweaking her nipples in one fluid motion.

Concerns from deep within her conscience flit across her mind, unable to be netted under her drug-suffused state, the shadow climbing nimbly from deep within her. Tom drops to his knees, removing his fingers from her hardened peaks only to push her laced bra aside and leaning in to rhythmically lick and suck. Her fingers tangle in his hair, moans escaping her bitten lip as warmth spreads at her core.

Tom stands, capturing her lips in a searing kiss as he trails his hand above her thigh high boots and up the inside of her leather skirt. His movements are more fluid, articulate than Chloe’s as he cups her with a kiss and she knows Tom can feel the unsolicited wetness dampening the thin material. 

Her consciousness and sobriety slips even further into the void as his fingers slip beneath her underwear and into her wetness. Teeth tug gently on Tom’s neck as he teases her slick folds before withdrawing as someone pounds on the door at Chloe’s back with a muffled shout. Tom rolls his eyes as he extracts his hand, smiling like the devil as he shouts back that it ‘won’t be a moment’. 

Chloe exhales as exhaustion and trepidation conquer the numbing substance with a blur as Tom reaches into his pocket to grab the remaining two pills. He offers one to Chloe while simultaneously knocking his own back and she’s at the fork of two roads.

* * *

There’s an audible grumble and lazy scuffle of feet on timber after Chloe knocks a second time at 2am in the morning. Light spills blindingly into the dim corridor as the door creaks open, Beca’s hair dishevelled beneath her headphones that are draped idly around her neck.

Both eyes closed, a fist rubs across one wearily; the other hand griping the side of the door frame as Beca moans, “It’s the middle of the fudging night, Jesse, I swear if this is about Schindler’s List I will kick you so hard in the-”

Chloe isn’t a stranger to the verifiable truth that she must look terrible. She barely remembers the cab ride from town to the campus and isn’t exactly sure how she managed to walk from the rank all the way to Baker’s Hall and up three flights of stairs. What she does know is that she’s shivering, her teeth switching interchanging between chattering and gnawing at the loose skin on her bottom lip, goosebumps raised from quivering arms that are bare and crossed unflinchingly against her chest (her coat was shed in the cab and promptly left in the back seat). 

Impassiveness and naivety aside, Chloe is anxious of which exact part of her appearance that has Beca Mitchell, self-proclaimed “cool girl” infamous for sweeping her emotions so far under the rug they’re often never seen again, staring at her shock, mouth gaping momentarily before closing as she snaps out of her paralysis. 

“Chloe! What the- Oh my god.” Beca’s hand falls and reaches out to Chloe before retreating to make a ‘come in’ motion, “dude, please come in. You’re shivering.”

Chloe can only force her head to sway from left to right, tears welling up in her eyes at an alarmingly rate, she shouldn’t have come, “Becs-”

How does she continue? It’s not as though she _meant_ to traipse all the way from the city to Beca’s door. Her body had sort of, carried her, away from the bathroom and Tom and straight into a taxi without her conscious consent. But Beca doesn’t seem fazed about nor privy to her perpetual internal monologue, rocking herself forward into the hallway and capturing Chloe’s hand to pull them both inside the warmth of her dorm.

Beca sits her down on the bed to check before moving. The brunette crosses over to her desk to shed her headphones and moves to close programs on her laptop, which is adorned with stickers and sticky notes scrawled by Chloe herself. Her mixing program reveals lines and bars that remind Chloe of a heart rate monitor before Beca snaps the screen down and switches off the lamp.

Chloe forces herself to close her eyes, sinking deeper in the mattress as the electrical activity in her brain is restless and voltaic while she listens. The closet door opens, a draw slides out and slams back in with a 15 second pause in the middle before the closet door squeaks shut and Beca pads across the room, footsteps amplifying as the distance closes between them.

In any other state of mind, she would feel ashamed. Embarrassed. Guilty for knocking on Beca’s door in the early hours of a Friday morning. But in this moment, coming down from MDMA and frozen to the core, vesicles of self-hatred and regret slowly swelling and foaming from her heart, she only feels relief.  Safety.

It’s only after her boots have been unzipped and removed, shirt tugged over her head and skirt shimmied down her legs that Chloe opens her eyes, dazed and confused. She’s certain something was meant to replace the clothes that Beca just removed. Deep-sea blue’s rake over her almost bare body, and Chloe is wary that she’s caught her best friend in a moment of vulnerability. Although she’s pretty sure her lips are still blue from her walk through the quiet, tundra of Barden University, a spark of warmth ignites and smoulders in her chest at the hint of desire that is smeared across Beca’s face. 

Speculations and sensations congest, stacking and stumbling over one another as they rush from her amygdala through the cortex and Chloe is glad that Beca seems to snap from her reverie, pulling the Barden University hoodie over her robotically upstretched arms. Beca reaches forward to release her hair from under the neckline of the jumper before reaching to the floor to grab a make-up removal pad and wiping her cheeks, with patience and care before leaning back to stare at Chloe with the same intensity that she saw only moments ago.

But it falters, Beca’s facial expressions sliding down to settle into a slight expression of unease and concern. The moment that Chloe reaches out, hand meeting Beca’s at the bend of the mattress, interweaving their fingers before she speaks, “are you okay, Chlo?”

The hand in her own grips, thumb stroking softly across the exterior of her hand and it seems like Beca has been asking her that a lot, lately. It’s a force of habit when a smile creeps up at the corner of her mouth, nodding, “yeah, of course.”

“You don’t seem like you are,” Beca’s head cocks to the side, perplexity smeared across her face. “You seem like you’re-,” she stops and Chloe can sense her hesitancy, saying a silent prayer that Beca isn’t about to ask the inevitable.

Time lingers as she waits for Beca to continue, heart beating in an anxious flutter. Instead of speaking, the brunette rises, walking to the closet and reaching into the mini fridge. She rustles around for a few moments, bottles and cartons clinking before straightening up and returning to the bed. Bottle of water and crisps in hand, she drops down next to Chloe before handing them to her and smiling, “Tell me about your night?”

Beca seems cheerful, eyes curious as she reaches to twist a lock of red hair and although her tone and demeanour is light, Chloe knows she isn’t asking as a point of small talk. 

“I had a bad day, or maybe just a bad week,” Chloe looks into steel blue, meeting Beca’s gaze with a grimace before dropping her head back down to the water and taking a sip, “and I figured you’d be at the station, not that that’s a problem but I just-” she shrugs, “Aubrey had that Yogalates workshop with Stacie, Emily sees her Mom on Thursday nights and Tom had already texted me to invite me out. I know I’m not meant to go out during the semester but I just felt like it.”

The fingers that cosset flyaway’s smooth against the back of her neck as a well-defined line forms between brunette eyebrows. Beca taps her finger against Chloe’s hand. “Who says you’re not supposed to do that? Aubrey?”

Chloe nods, “yeah.” 

Beca leans back on the mattress, free hand slowing its massages into the back of Chloe’s cranium to a stop as her eyes flicker to the roof and back, “hmm, okay.”

“What?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Sorry, go on.” The hand returns to its original pace; scratching, rubbing and pulling softly at her hair. It comforts her when Beca doesn’t hold back on her affection. It reminds her of their growth, year old memories of Beca stiffening in her arms clear as day. A hand slides down the back of her neck, flattened against the top of her spine when a single finger taps again, pulling her out of her head.

“Right, anyway. Tom and I caught an über to this club, Sinners or something to meet up with Ryan and his girlfriend, Brodie,” she glances up in time to see Beca nodding in affirmation, kindness still playing at the corner of her lips, “And we had shots and stuff, and I think I had too much.”

The hand is removed from beneath the sweater as Beca shuffles on the mattress, bringing her sock covered feet up from the floor and crossing them under her knees, facing Chloe. She mimics Beca’s body language, knees now touching as Beca reaches forward to take both of her hands in her own, thumbs caressing again before giving her another reassuring smile, “Just drunk?”

Chloe shifts on the spot as she is uncomfortably reminded of her night, the little pill that has almost warn off.  Turning over their conjoined hands, she runs her thumbs over Beca’s palms, tracing the outline of a small scar on her left that Beca got from _cutting a banana,_ of all things. She doesn’t want to lie to Beca, but she can’t bring herself to tell the truth. Chloe can’t wait too long, doesn’t want her to get suspicious, so she looks directly into Beca’s eyes and nods. “Yeah,” not waiting (nor allowing) for a response, she continues, “I think I had a bit much, I can’t even remember how I got here.”

The inside of her mouth is dry, her back teeth chew at the inside of her cheek as she awaits Beca’s reply.

“Do you know why?” 

“Why what?”

Beca playfully scoffs, rocking back on her heels before leaning closer, “Why you came here at 2am on a Friday morning, you _sausage_ , instead of just going back to your dorm, or with Tom?” The last few words come out in a rush, followed by a hurried string of reassurances when Chloe withdraws her hands, reaching to run her fingers through her hair to hide the hurt, “Not that I don’t want you here, Dude, because I do. I really do.” 

Hands firmly grip Chloe’s shoulders until one falls, running down her arm and linking their fingers again. Only this time Beca pulls it up, pressing her lips against Chloe’s palm, and then with a flip to the back of her hand before tucking it under her chin, embracing. 

Chloe can’t meet her gaze, a tightness twisting in her chest at Beca wondering why she hadn’t gone with Tom. Like Tom had _anything_ on Beca. Her mind is a jumble, lose items reverberating in her bleak mind before she realises Beca is waiting for her to speak.

“Oh. I don’t know, I just thought-” her throat is so _dry_ , tense and unforgiving as she forces herself to swallow. She decides to be honest with Beca about how she feels, to not hold back because she _needs_ her, “I was scared, I guess. To be alone,” lips press against her hand again, encouragingly, “That it would be too much, that I would lose control.” 

She breaks then, at the thought of it all. The night had felt so much like the last time she lost control; the inner conflict between her heart and head, trying to keep herself above the surface while being the one to pull herself below. Hot tears spill over and she feels the embarrassment now; cheeks flush and swirls of violet and black thunder regret at the base of her throat as she reaches to her face, desperate to palm away the descended droplets. An assured hand wraps around her wrist, drawing it back down into the owners lap as Beca’s face is contorted, lips turned down at the sides, eyes wide in sympathetic anguish. 

Guilt flits across the regret, she knows Beca hates when she cries. The brunette is clumsy, bumbling as she reaches into her bedside draw, fingers still clasped around Chloe’s wrist as she finishes rustling and slams it shut, tissue tucked between two fingers. Sitting back on her heels, Beca wipes at Chloe’s face, smile returning before she ungrasps. Warm hands snake beneath her BU jumper again, only this time sliding around to the back of her neck and pulling her close, lips gently pressing against her forehead.

After a while, whispers tickle against her skin, “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Chloe releases a breath that she was unaware she was holding and Beca leans back, fingers still linked on the skin hidden beneath her hair and she knows Beca is right. The night is behind her, and physically, she’s safe now. Scattered between blankets and beneath the affection of Beca’s gaze, she can’t help but think she mightn’t be out of the woods yet; her mind creaks and groans under the pressure of the foreboding shadow that has climbed. She isn’t sure exactly _when_ the darkness had writhed and wove between each of her vertebrae until seeping into her skull. Yet it’s almost too easy to push down, stagnant in the midst of her best friend who is still holding her.

A moment passes before she refocuses on Beca, blue now flicking between Chloe’s own lips and eyes. A longing that has settled in her heart, a seed sown exclusively for the girl who leans closer, breaths mingling, stirs. Eyes still flit, lips inch closer before a vibration from the desk jolts Chloe back from her daze. Beca only sighs, lips twinging in a smile as her lids close. 

Beca walks to her desk, frowning in confusion as she reads the notification. Chloe takes this time to sip more water, suddenly realising how exhausted she is, how dry her throat is. She is shuffling back and kicking the blankets out to cover her bed socks when she transiently hears her name. Glancing at Beca, she is met with a patient look of waiting and realises she must have asked her something, “huh?”

The brunette laughs, hands positioned to respond to the message when she repeats herself, “where’s your phone?”

“Oh,” Chloe reaches to the side of the bed to grab her skirt, checking the hidden pocket before rifling through her purse until she finds her phone. She thumbs the home button three times before sighing in defeat, flinging her phone onto the blanket and grimacing at Beca, “she’s dead.”

Beca snorts, continuing her text without so much as a whisper. Curiosity gets the best of her, wondering who else would be up in the early hours of the morning, "who is it?”

She doesn’t bat a lid, nor does she glance up from her phone as she answers, “Aubrey. General Posen wants to know if you’re with me, because she just got back from Stacie’s to find an empty bed.” 

“Oh.”

A sliver of guilt hops across her chest and dances on her shoulders. She had again neglected her best friend, too caught up in painfully missing her and the vexing feelings of resent and bitterness. 

Beca locks her phone and places it on the desk, talking while she walks, “I told her to keep her wig on and that you had been here all night.” She bounces onto the mattress before taking Chloe’s phone from the quilt, reaching down beside the bed to grab the cord and lying it on the bedside table to charge, “I also asked why she’s only get back from Stacie’s at almost 3am, but has responded to that just yet.” Chloe tucks her lip beneath her teeth to mimic Beca’s mischievous chuckle, leaning back on the pillow and settling under the blankets. 

With a click the lamp goes out, blanketing the room in darkness save for the stream of lighting coming through the window as Beca rearranges beside her. It’s a force of habit when Chloe shuffles closer to Beca, object to the magnetic force that constantly drags her in. Only unlike most times, she’s met in the middle of the bed; Beca winding her arm to rest under Chloe’s neck and pulling her into an embrace.

“Thank you.” 

“Anything for you, Beale.” 

* * *

Chloe knows her mind is scattered, back left teeth chewing at her inner cheek. She can’t stop thinking about time, of all things. Something about the book she just finished, borrowed from Emily, _The Time Keeper._ She found a common ground with the youngest Bella over reading, once walking past her outside Chloe’s regular coffee shop, The Den. Emily sat in one of the classic Adirondack chairs, feet tucked beneath her legs, nestled in an unbelievably large, mustard coloured scarf that seemed like a blanket at first. Steaming coffee in one hand, _In Cold Blood_ by Truman Capote in the other and Chloe was sure she had never seen Emily sit so _still._  

It had blossomed then, as Chloe prodded Legacy with her foot and pulled up a chair, completely forgetting about the workshop she was planning on attending. It started with recommendations, favourite quotes until Emily promised that she’d lend her the book as soon as she was done. They traded and shared books from then, and the last one she had been given was by Mitch Albom, playing on Chloe’s mind now.

Beca’s socks make contact with her own, breath even. Chloe faces away from her, staring at the wall, mindful of the hand splayed at the dip of her tailbone. It wasn’t unusual for her best friend to have some kind of appendage touching her while she slept, whether it be a leg or her head resting on Chloe’s chest.

Her thoughts are rolling, sporadic as she thinks deeper and deeper about timekeeping. How people are the only ones conscious of their own body clock, aware that one day, they will just _die._ She knows her is mind is still a mess, desperately shaking her head to get away from the idea that everyone has their own personal _lifetime clock_ , and how one day, unbeknownst to her, her time will run out.

She turns over, desperately about to use Beca’s sleeping form to ground her. Sober her. She finds herself wishing she had done so sooner. Beca’s steel blue eyes are open, trailing over the roof until they slide sideways to stare into Chloe’s, a smile playing at her mouth.

“Becs?” 

“Hey,” it’s so low it’s almost whispered, a tenderness to her voice, “why aren’t you asleep, missy? Are you hungry? I have Pop Tarts, which I know you think are an insidious obstruction of our fundamental Human Rights, but it’s something.”

Chloe rolls her eyes, trying to give her best Beca-esque impression and earning a slight chuckle, “No, no. I just was wondering something.”

Beca sighs impishly, “I’m not going to another Just Dance Competition with you again, you can take Emily. You know she would kill it with her running man.”

Chloe giggles at the memory, smiling candidly at Beca’s cheeky grin. But underneath, she reconsiders what she wants to ask Beca. She’s drawing a pro/con list (again with the lists!) in her head before a finger _boops_ her on the nose, “Chlo, c’mon. You can ask me anything.”

Deciding to jump right into the deep end, knowing that this was serious and that Beca would prefer a ‘No-nonsense’ approach, she cuts straight to the point, “Why didn’t you, or rather why _won’t_ you tell me why your Mom killed herself?”

She knows that she pushing it, and that until recently, Beca had made it crystal clear that she never wanted to talk about it. But it pushes at Chloe, tosses her side to side more than the Nodes situation ever since Beca’s confession the other day. It doesn’t come as a surprise to her when Beca rolls over turning her back back Chloe, locks of brown spilling out over the pillow with a mumble, “Except that.”

She waits, patiently. It’s best to let Beca talk, or sleep because it’s out there now. And Chloe knows better than anyone that she might need some time processing even the fact that Chloe wants to _discuss_ it, before Beca actually considers what she might say.

“I don’t talk about it, Chlo. It’s not-” Beca turns back to her, the breath dragged through gritted teeth trembling and Chloe dutifully ignores the beads of moisture that threaten to spill over Beca’s eyes. 

Instead, she reaches her hand out, drawing her thumb across Beca’s cheekbone, eyes closing under her touch, leaning and Chloe assures her, “You don’t have to, it’s okay. I just wanted to know if I could do something different, something better.”

“No, you are,” Beca smiles weakly, craning her neck to kiss the wrist shadowing her cheek, “perfect, Beale. Don’t ever think that.”

She’s about to express her thanks, or tell Beca to forget about it all and to just fall asleep in each other’s arms, safe from the darkness of their pasts when Beca drops her eyes, words tumbling out, “It was a never-ending cycle of her losing her mind, getting it back only to let it slip through her fingers again.”

Chloe is reticent, grasping at one of the scarce times that Beca just _speaks._  

“It went on for years, she’d resurface only to drown again until I was fourteen and away on this _stupid_ music camp that I went to every summer.” Quivering fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt, Beca looking anywhere but _at_ Chloe. 

“Part of me wanted to go, but the other part was too scared to leave her. I remember talking to my Dad about how I felt, and as usual he treated me like a child, telling me it wasn’t for me to worry about. That he would take care of her, of everything.” 

Beca laughs bitterly, cynicism emulated in squinted eyes, “I can’t even remember why I was stupid enough to _believe_ him. It consumed me. I usually really enjoyed the whole thing, singing and putting on a play for the parents at the end of the two weeks. I think that year was Annie.” Beca glances down with a small, displeased chuckle, “I was Molly with the whole, height thing.”

“Obviously.”

“I never got to play her; I left after four days. I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t have much energy to sing and dance, my head and my heart was at home, with _her_. So they called my Dad, who reluctantly drove two hours to come get me.” She shakes her head with agitated disbelief.  

“We got home, and-” Beca gulps, and Chloe herself senses the sorrow hiding in the back of her throat, insistent in its release. She swallows it back; she has to stay strong for Beca. Show her she’s not leaving, not going anywhere. Seconds tick past, moments before Beca finally peeks, lip quivering beneath her teeth.

“He- I-, we shouldn’t have left her alone.”

A sole tear glides unhurriedly down Beca’s flushed cheeks, illuminated by the light of the moon hanging in the night sky. Chloe stretches forward and it’s instinctive when kisses it away, “it wasn’t your fault, Beca.”

A bold hand slides behind her neck, leaving tingles in its wake, bracing. Even if Chloe _wanted_ to move away, she couldn’t. Beca sighs before murmuring against her hair in a quiet exhalation, “yeah.” 


	9. Perservere

An unappealing groan oscillates at the back of her throat as Beca stretches, arms falling limply onto the wooden floor beneath her. Her tight muscles shift and unravel from the centre of her back and out, almost moaning from reprieve. Beca is stretched out, upside down on Stacie and Emily’s second recliner sofa, socks bunched around her ankles as her feet rest on the head of the couch.

“Did you just blow your load, Mitchell?”

An upside-down Stacie feigns curiosity above an insolent smirk from the other couch and Beca sticks her tongue out. Stacie’s long legs are crossed beneath the knees, wrist balancing on her thigh as she holds a file over the nails of her right hand, waiting for Beca to bite back.

“Fuck off, Conrad. I’m beat,” exams were fast approaching, and in typical Beca fashion, she left most of her readings to the last minute. The last few nights had been torturous; flicking through her textbook, yellow highlighter becoming an extension of her own hand. She’s exhausted, even after Chloe had dropped in to her dorm, wafting a tall Americano under her nose in an attempt to pry her away from the desk, promising a movie night with some of the other Bellas.

 (“If I stare at it long enough, the words will be burned _on_ my brain, like when you stare at a light bulb for too long and then look away.”

“Becs, that’s not even possible. The temporary light ‘burn’ is on your _eyes,_ anyway”).

Beca is unsure of the exact moment her head had hit the footrest instead of the back of the sofa, how _exactly_ she ended up upside down. She sends a silent prayer that the caffeine she inhaled not two hours ago will flood her brain and inundate her eyes, forcing them to stay open for at least a few more hours.

“Sounds like you already beat, if you know what I mean.”

“ _Stacie!”_

“What’s going on here?” Amy plops down on the seat next to Stacie, wrapping a roll-up around an Oreo and Beca screws up her nose at the ‘snack’.

“Beca is getting herself off publicly, so,” Stacie shrugs indifferently, attention shifted back to filing her nails, “nothing different.” Beca narrows her eyes at Stacie, channelling her inner Aubrey as she glares in feign annoyance.

“Oh,” Amy leans forward, throwing her thumb to the right with a serious expression, “Ginger is in the kitchen, want me to call her over?”

It’s not unlike any other time a Bella makes an inappropriate and unsolicited joke about herself and Chloe when Beca splutters, feeling a spread of flush bloom creeping across her chest like an unbridled forest fire of embarrassment. Stacie drops her hand to Amy’s knee, giving it a friendly squeeze with her thumb and forefinger and winking at Beca, “leave her be, Ames. Chloe is smokin’ _,_ I bet the sexual tension can get a lot for such a ‘small’ enclosure.”

Beca scowls at the both of them, still glowering as she shrinks back into the quilt covered sofa.

She trails her fingertips over the floorboards, glimpsing into the kitchen when her stomach growls impatiently. Her and Chloe’s shared bowl of popcorn rests on the latter’s hip, balancing precariously as she laughs with Emily. The redhead’s beige, oversized cardigan is open at the buttons, swivelled to the side and adorning soft skin where her tank top has risen as a by-product of the balancing bowl. Beca can’t help but stare; latching onto the creamy patch with her eyes, muscle memory causing her hand to twitch at the recollection of pressing her thumb against that exact spot. A flicker of incandescence pulsates at her core, and Beca closes her eyes. It plays like a movie, seeing and feeling flashes of her own, personal anthology; muscular thighs clasped around her own, Chloe’s tongue tracing the seam of her lip, the warmth of her best friend’s core grinding on her bare stomach, wet.

Stacie might be right; Beca _might_ just cream herself, especially if she keeps thinking about the weekend before. She hastily searches her mind for something to cool her down.

It’s more effective than a cold shower when her mind lands on Tom.

Her eyes flick open, burning from the sudden exposure to the shine of the ceiling light. To her (and a lot of the girls) it seemed only natural that Chloe and Tom would be together. They were both _unreasonably_ attractive with promising futures and chemistry that smacked anyone in the face that stood in a ten-mile radius, such as Beca. On the rare occasions they spoke (like, three times) he was kind, polite and enthusiastically made an effort to contribute to the conversation, despite Aubrey’s blatantly obvious scowling from outside the cadre.

She has never had the balls to ask Aubrey _why_ she hates Tom (she doesn’t want Aubrey to ask her why she cares). Whispers and gossips from rehearsals have only told her why Aubrey _wouldn’t_ hate him; he was ambitious in his athletics and studies, he treated Chloe right and Cynthia Rose had mentioned that Chloe had set the boundaries that branded them as ‘friends with benefits’ in the beginning (Beca had flinched at that).

Beca knew one thing about Aubrey for certain; like her father, she was a woman of austere principles. “Preparation is the foundation of success”, “if at first you don’t succeed, pack your bags” and something seemingly only neglected with Beca herself; don’t judge a book by its cover. Aubrey rarely disliked somebody ‘just because’, leaving Beca to conclude that Tom had in fact done _something_ to offend the tall blonde.

Which was strange, because as far as Beca knew, Tom was a good guy.

Beca knew only felt an aversion to him because she was jealous.

Jealous that he had what she wanted most. Jealous that Chloe wanted him like _that_. Jealous that after four years of consistent sex, how well he must know her body. How it must be almost habitual to him, Chloe’s likes and dislikes, what made her moan, tremble, _scream._

Beca’s thighs involuntarily clench at the thought, a torsion of heat resuming its throb at her core as she envisions _herself_ undoing Chloe; head tucked between thighs, fingers digging into skin as her tongue swipes lengthily over a swollen bud, over and over and over until Chloe comes apart with a cry.

The pads of her fingertips rub into the side of her neck where it twinges, her gaze returns to Chloe and the desire is extinguished by the feeling of infamy. She gulps, ignoring the moistness between her legs and choosing to refocus on Chloe’s strange demeanour.

Sure, she carries herself like always; bright, simple yet with a clever, fertile mind.

But Beca knows better, can _see_ Chloe better than the others (she’s probably neck-to-neck with Aubrey). Over the night, she’s counted four times that Chloe rolls her shoulders, hand reaching beneath her hair to rub taut muscles at the base of her neck. Before the popcorn had been taken from the microwave, she had been occupying vacant hands, picking at her cuticles. Beca watches now as she hands Emily the bowl, tresses of auburn being pulled up into a messy bun, a hairstyle only utilised in strain and concentration.

Chloe is tense, tired and stressed about _something_ and Beca wouldn’t have the first clue as to what.

It wasn’t for a lack of trying. Something had shifted between them over the past week, materialising an unfamiliar barricade between Chloe and herself. It transpired (strangely enough) from the redhead, bricks laying upon bricks with every change of subject, every half-truth. The switch was an ill-favoured obtrusion festering at the posterior of Beca’s brain; it was _her_ who kept people out and Chloe who brought down a sledgehammer to her barriers, over the years becoming hollow and sparse in their reconstruction until transparent.

And it was better that way. Despite the relentless yet stifled voice that goaded her to run, Beca felt whole. A part of something, someone. Chloe had fractured her chest, reaching between her ribs to awaken the languidly beating commodity that was her heart. Beca had always felt as if they were intertwined, twisting and pulsating. It was like Chloe had a part of her, running back and forth through a thread of Chloe’s own radiant, golden magma that surged between them like ocean tides.

It had bloomed within her, everything Chloe ever doing or saying causing a superfluity of sensations to wind and ebb through her veins, filling each and every empty crevice in her body, illuminating.

Over the past week, the magma had faintly darkened, molten edges fading into black, smouldering embers. Brief messages and uncrossed paths, she hadn’t seen Chloe for a few days. That was until fourteen hours’ prior; door unlocked to reveal an untamed main of auburn, eyes desolate yet erratic and the smell of a bar floor.

(Beca tried not to feel upset when she woke up alone again).

Her heart almost flies out of her chest, hand flailing and reaching out to steady herself as she almost falls when Chloe’s voice rings out from the kitchen, “Beca Mitchell, sit up. The blood is gonna rush to your head and your pretty face will be a nasty shade of red forever.”

She grumbles, rubbing her eyes before sinking further into the quilt, trying to shake her head out of playing the same, perpetual rhythm of the same one song that has been stuck on repeat; She wants Chloe, all of Chloe. Chloe was keeping her out. Chloe was still sleeping with Tom. They’re friends. _Friends._ **Best** friends _._

Best friends who withhold food from each other, apparently.

Beca swivels, crossing her legs and dragging the huge quilt to wrap it around her body before muttering, “will that make you hurry up and get over here?”

From the kitchenette comes a gasp; Emily’s eyes are as wide as saucers as she gapes before breathing a stunned, ‘Beca!’ (she thinks Legacy should be used to her attitude by now, _especially_ when she’s hungry). The youngest Bella’s reaction is averse to Chloe’s; narrowing her eyes into a playful glare. A smirk plays at the redhead’s lips before she squeezes Emily’s shoulder and makes her way to stand next to the sofa.

“Is this seat taken?”

Beca glares in nonchalance at her chaste tone (as if they don’t always sit next to each other). “Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re gonna share that popcorn,” her petulance is rewarded with a laugh and Chloe sits down next to her, handing her the bowl before tugging at the blanket. Beca balances the food on the arm of the sofa as she wriggles, allowing Chloe to straighten out and reposition the quilt over them both. A hand brushes against her thigh and lingers, and under Beca’s dishevelled munching a shiver runs down her spine.

“Hungry, Becs? Maybe you should eat something more substantial,” Chloe winks before turning to Stacie, hand rubbing mindlessly at Beca’s back as she chokes, sharply inhaling popcorn at a fleeting thought of the last thing she thought about eating, “what movie are we watching tonight?”

“Casanova, duh” Stacie leans forward to drop her nail file next to Beca’s phone on the coffee table before picking up her own, flicking through the notifications, “but we’re waiting on Aubrey.” She frowns before locking her phone and squints at Emily, who shakes the couch as she wriggles beside Amy in an attempt to get cosy.

Chloe nods and clears her throat before speaking, “where is she?”

  
Emily turns to Chloe, face etched in naive confusion, “do you not know where Aubrey is? She’s your best friend!”

It’s almost comical how often Emily verbalises the thoughts in Beca’s mind. Why _didn’t_ Chloe know where Aubrey was? Were they fighting again? An unsolicited, almost nasty thought pushes to the front her mind; as if she would know.

Beca is internally chastising herself while Stacie cautions, (“Em!”) before turning back to Chloe, “she’s just at the gym.”

“Oh, right. That’s right.” Chloe’s voice is a blend of recollection with a hint of distress, and it’s second nature when Beca reaches out to squeeze her knee. It’s almost startling how fast Chloe switches from flirtatious to what Beca can only recognise as contrite.

The bowl shifts on her lap as Chloe jolts at her touch, a beat passing before a warm hand seeks Beca’s under the bedding, intertwining their fingers at the union. It’s not unusual, but the familiarity pulls Beca back to her previous thoughts about hauling down the unwelcomed walls.

The older Bella sighs, laying her head across her shoulder and nestling against her. Beca glimpses to the other couch, noting Stacie’s raised finger, scolding Amy for taking the remote from Emily and decides to take her shot, lightly wiggling the shoulder beneath Chloe’s head to get her attention, “Chlo?”

Beca feels guilty for her timing when Chloe doesn’t lift her head, eye lashes reposing on the dark circles plunging into her freckled cheeks. The redhead’s voice is weary, breathy as she replies, “yeah?”

“Can I talk to you?” Beca gulps, shooting a look to the other couch again. Amy’s hands flail in the air, reciting a bad (and very dirty) joke to Emily. Beca recognises it as Amy’s attempt at an apology (the Australian is far too proud to say the **actual** words). It works as always, Emily giggling as she flicks through the channels. Stacie’s eyes now bore into her own, only dropping down to her phone when she meets them. Stacie isn’t a stranger to the way she feels about Chloe, only conversed through stolen glances and sympathetic smiles. But they’ve never spoken about it, and right now she wants to say things to Chloe that she wouldn’t want anyone else to hear, “in the hall?”

* * *

Beca takes a deep breath, exhaling as she closes the door behind her gently in an attempt of composure. She turns, arms making their way across her chest in a manner of habit. Chloe leans against the wall, fidgeting with her hands and staring at her shoes.

“What’s going on with you, Chlo?” The redhead looks up, a line crinkling between her brows in confusion, waiting. Thinking back on the past week, Beca realises that she has never seen this side of her; quiet, distant. She can’t recall exactly when Chloe stopped letting her in, stopped talking to her. So she decides to press, steer the conversation like Chloe always does for her, “You’re hiding something from me and I know it would be hypocritical of me to not be okay with it, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

Chloe’s lip balances beneath her teeth, holding her gaze before it drops down to trembling hands, fingernails picking at one another.  Beca pushes herself forth from where she was leaning against the door, taking quivering hands into her own and stooping her head to hold blue to blue.

“I can see it. Whatever this is, it’s eating you up inside and dragging you down. You deserve to be happy, Chlo and I want-,” the redhead’s eyes flutter close, mouth twitching in dejection and Beca struggles to not press her lips against them, “I want to be there for you, the way you always are for me, because I know what it’s like. I know that you might want to handle it alone, or maybe it’s too much to share, but I can attest that sharing your pain, your troubles with someone else makes it all worth it.”

Her bottom lip juts out, quivering as Beca steadies herself, “I know I have probably the _worst_ track record with feelings, but that’s for me, for my crap.” Beca squeezes the hands between her own, aware of how _fast_ she’s speaking, “Whatever’s going on, it’s with you and I can- I _will_ handle it, because you mean _everything_ to me.”

Chloe looks at her then, gazing into her eyes with a harrowing assimilation of curiosity and impedance. It’s only for a moment, the blue disappears as fast as it came about and Beca feels disheartened. She ignores the pleas from her mind that tell her to stop talking, to shut up. Instead, something squeezes at the ventricles in her heart, calling for the fear that is synchronic with love, calling for affliction, for _Chloe._

“You’re my best friend, and no matter how scary or- or- shameful it is, I’m here.” A tear slips from beneath Chloe’s left lid and the desperation pulls at Beca’s heartstrings, threatening to snap, “I won’t run, dude. I _swear_ I won’t run, I just-”

“Just tell her, Chloe.”

Chestnut and crimson tresses brush as they flick their heads to the end of the hall. Beca steps back, dropping Chloe’s hands. Aubrey’s gym bag is slung hastily over a mauve coat, the blonde standing apathetic at the top of the stairs. Beca grimaces, panic and trepidation bubbling her chest; she has no idea how long Aubrey has been standing there, or _what_ she has heard. She feels vulnerable, and is almost grateful for the cloud of confusion that billows placidly across her mind over Aubrey’s words.

Aubrey brushes the flecks of snow that scatter across her shoulders as she advances towards them, never taking her eyes from Chloe. When she comes to a standstill, Beca looks between her captains, waiting a few beats before nudging Chloe with her foot, “Tell me what?”

Aubrey uses a finger to tilt Chloe’s chin up, softly coercing her to meet her eyes as she takes her hand. The gesture is soft and delicate, miles away from Aubrey’s typical demeanour.  “Stop hiding from it. Let us help you.”

It’s such an uncommonly open intimacy between the two that Beca feels like an intruder. But her heart beats rapidly, thumping against her chest as she is sickened at the countless possibilities of Aubrey’s words, “what is it, Chlo? Is everything okay? Are you sick?”

Chloe’s bottom lip quivers and like Beca, Aubrey is met with silence.

The blonde huffs, stepping back, “Okay.” Her eyes close and she inhales, lips moving as she counts breathily to three before continuing, “okay. I am going to give you **ten** seconds to stop me, and if you don’t, I’m going to tell her. This isn’t fair, not on Beca, on me and certainly not yourself. You have to face this; it affects all of us.”

The seconds pass without any indication of acknowledgement and finally Aubrey turns to her, “Beca, Chloe has vocal nodules. They’re benign growths on her vocal cords and she’s known for about a week now.”

Oh.

Her own throat thickens with pain and commiseration for Chloe, smothering the frustrations and doubts. Nodes. _Nodes._ On her _vocal cords._

(She isn’t surprised Chloe hasn’t been able to tell her).

The ache of empathy and sorrow that swells at the bottom of her throat pushes; Chloe’s whole future must be slipping through her fingers. Memories of late night conversations and shared dreams flicker over her mind. She knows how happy singing made Chloe, whether it be with the Bellas, harmonising with Aubrey over breakfast or recording verses with Beca on a Sunday afternoon. It’s her _life_.

Her hand is reaching out to Chloe against her will, curling back into a fist when Aubrey shakes her head in thought and continues,

“Nobody knows. She pushed too hard, put too much strain on her voice.” Although her voice is laced with exasperation and frustration, her bright, green eyes bear distresses, “Now she has to get surgery, and after that she’ll be out for the seas-”

“I’m not.”

(It’s the first time Chloe has spoken since they left the dorm).

Aubrey is still facing Beca, and she watches as the blonde struggles to stay composed; her lids drop, throat bobbing as she attempts a controlled swallow. Nostrils flare in haste, and Aubrey drops Chloe’s hand before swivelling around on her heels.

Chloe atypically _seethes._ The muscles in her jaw work as she clenches, fists balled up at her sides, clasping and unclasping as she speaks for a second time, “I’m not getting the surgery.”

 “ _What?”_ Aubrey spits, all efforts of calm composure flying out the window as she steps closer. Beca is unnerved; part of her urges to step in between the impossibly small space between them (she is sure she could fit, she’s small) and force them to have a civilised conversation, but she really wants to leave. A wave of discomfort settles on her shoulders and pulls; she shouldn’t be here.

The pressure is torrid, air thickened with heated animosity and when she feels assured of her forgotten existence, Beca elects to make her escape. One foot shuffles back, barely moving an inch when she is stopped by Aubrey.

“No, Beca. Stay. I want her to say it to both of us.”

“Aubrey I really don’t think-”

“Well I _do_ think. I want you to bear witness to whatever it is our best friend has to say for herself.” Aubrey’s voice trembles with forced calmness, hidden behind scorn and hostility, “she’s going to tell us that instead of studying literature all these years, she’s actually a qualified and practiced ENT and is about to grace us with a recently discovered medical miracle-”

“Aubrey-” her eyes are glued to Chloe, watching as shoulders fall and eyelids flutter close.

“-for an explanation where she would risk losing her voice for good!”

Beca jiggles her leg, trying to shake out the feeling that Chloe might be being reckless, letting her fear dictate her _health_ and _future_ , out of all things. The redheads fist pumps and pulses in time with her leg, and part of Beca eases at the tell-tale sign that Chloe is about to snap, to articulate her justification for her decisions. It’s a sluggish jolt, her stomach twisting in both an unsolicited disappointment and anxiety when Chloe recomposes, whispering, “Stop trying to control me, Bree.”

Beca raises her hands in forfeit as something inside her twists; she’s way over her head to stay around for this conversation for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, it’s none of her business and secondly, the dynamic of control between Aubrey and the redhead is another topic of avoidance between Beca and Chloe, besides Tom. It’s their other Achilles heel, unspoken disputes about Aubrey’s dominance over Chloe divulging into other, unrelated tensions through her entire first year. The topic has been tossed aside, lying dormant in the midst of Amicable Aubrey and a realisation from Beca that it was out of her control. She backs towards the door, eyes trained on Chloe (who won’t look away from Aubrey), eager to leave before the inevitable.

“You know what? I’m feeling very Switzerland about-” Beca’s hands circle in the air, “all of this, right now, and it really is none of Switzerland’s business. And Switzerland is hungry and so, yeah, I’m just going back inside.”

Curls of blonde bounce as Aubrey nods, eyes flitting from Beca to the floor and lip tucked beneath her bleach white teeth. Ringlets of red are static, Chloe is in some sort of rigid indignation and Beca briefly wonders if she even remembers that she’s there. 

* * *

She pulls the door shut behind her and swivels, hand still gripping the brass knob. Her head bumps against the door a few times, exasperated from the chaos and plight.

Thoughts meddle violently and without interlude and for Chloe; condolences, maternal instincts and frustrations coalesce behind her eyelids in a whirl of multi-coloured vivacity. Beca understands _completely_ why she didn’t tell her, why she was afraid to face it head on. But she can’t help but feel the damage of Chloe’s denial and yield every time she expressed her concerns. That maybe they were never really that close. (Stop it). Tears sting her eyes; Aubrey was the one to tell her in the end, Chloe hadn’t spoken a single word to her since the moment they stepped into the hall.

“Shawshank, you okay?”

For the third time that night, Beca jolts. She entirely forgot about the others, where she was. Stacie and Emily wear identical expressions of apprehension and benevolence over the back of the sofa. Amy is stood in front of her, crunching _her_ popcorn with a frown, “Shawshank?”

She shakes her head and before shifting to a nod when Emily abruptly stands, concern etched deep into her innocuous face, “sorry, yeah.” The handle twists beneath her hand and she almost shouts in panic, bolting to the couch before hissing at the others, “Amy, Legs! Sit down! Don’t anyone say anything.”

Amy has faith, almost banging her shin into the corner of the coffee table as she scurries, pivoting around Stacie’s legs and throwing herself onto the leather beanbag. The door creaks open as Stacie switches off the lamp and seizes the remote, pressing ‘play’, followed by ‘next chapter’. Emily is different story, standing with her lips slightly parted, dumbfounded, “what? About what?”

Amy yanks her hand, pulling her to the couch and throwing a pillow on her lap at the same time. The door opens, light spilling across the darkened dorm before it closes. It’s silent before Stacie’s laugh peels out, gripping the Australian’s shoulder and Beca exhales in reprieve at her effortless acting, “Amy oh my god, what is actually wrong with you? Oh hey, Aubrey.”

“Hey Stace,” the bag slides off her shoulder and lands besides Amy on the floor with a thud, “Hey Amy, Em. Sorry I’m late, class went a little over. You know what Petra can be like,” Stacie nods, chuckling, “I’m just going to freshen up.”

Aubrey heads towards the bathroom, and Stacie’s smile slips as she turns to Beca, glaring at her in admonition. Beca isn’t stupid, she knows what Stacie is thinking, how it must seem like it is her fault that both their captain’s faces are blotchy. She shakes her head at Stacie, who’s scowl is replaced as quickly as it came, watching the movie as she slings her arm across the back of the couch to twirl a strand of Emily’s hair.

The cushion dips as Chloe perches on the edge of the chair. Beca reaches out, wrapping a hand around the inner of her elbow and guides her back. Chloe is silent, lifeless eyes staring at the screen as she is led. Beca shifts, settling into the couch before throwing the quilt over them both and wrapping her arm around Chloe. She dips her head, pressing her lips against Chloe’s temple only to hear hushed whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she murmurs back, her lips tickling against soft skin. Her hand weaves into the thick ringlets at the back of Chloe’s neck, rubbing comforting circles to soothe the redhead’s soft, shaken breath. After a few moments Chloe exhales, tilting her head back into the touch before nodding to herself, and Beca’s heartbeat eases.

Tresses of auburn glide over her arm as Chloe cranes her neck to look at her, a dimple etched into her cheek where her teeth gnaw the inside of her cheek. Beca smiles, “I’m here.”

Aubrey slips past Beca, manoeuvring between the two couches before sitting between Stacie and Emily. Beca watches as she looks at Chloe with anguish before turning to the TV, taking an offered jellybean from Emily.

The atmosphere is oddly quiet for their group, and minutes pass before Stacie clears her throat, “Oh Beca, your phone went off while you were gone. I think it was Jesse.”

Her fingers are slipping between tresses of red, nails scratching lightly as Chloe’s thumb skates back and forth over her kneecap, “can you read it?”

“For sure. Sorry girls, hold on.” Stacie leans forward to grab her phone from the coffee table, shuffling back into her seat before pausing the movie and switching on the floor lamp.

“Becaw, party tomorrow night at ours, bring dri-” Stacie shakes her head at the phone and looks at Beca, expression incredulous, “Jesus, Beca how do you even _decipher_ what this is? There’s _symbols-_ ” Beca shrugs, and Stacie continues, “bring drinks and your Bellas and prepare to get white girl.”

Amy hoots, making her hand into a fist and pulling her elbow back, “ _yes._ Party party, pitches!” She reaches up from the beanbag, arm awkwardly bent as she motions Emily for a high-five. The legacy returns it with a grin, and Stacie laughs, delighted at the interaction before throwing Beca her phone.

Beca to Swanson,

> **“Two Saturday’s in a row? Premeditating your loss at the championships already?”**

She locks her phone, ignoring the chatter about outfits and alcohol from the other sofa and nudges the quiet girl beside her with her elbow.

“Keen?”

Chloe shrugs, her lips twitching into an attempted smile, which instead comes out as a grimace, “yeah”.

“We don’t have to go.”

“No,” she clears her throat, dropping her gaze into her lap before rambling, “I want to. I just have a thing, a-a _throat_ thing before, so I can’t get ready with you. Which is really a bummer because-”

“Chlo, it’s okay.” Beca laughs, inside her heart swelling at the notion of crumbling walls. “Do you want me to come with?”

Chloe shakes her head, a genuine smile now meeting the corner of her lips, “No, Becs. Maybe next time? It’s just a little consultation, check-up sort of thing.”

“No problems,” (baby steps, Mitchell), “maybe you can stay over after? I mean,” Beca raises a brow, “only if you behave yourself.”

“When do I ever behave myself?” Chloe chuckles. They share a smile, holding each other’s gaze; Beca can never get enough of the medley of blues and speckles of emerald in her eyes. The chatter dies down, and Stacie resumes the film. Chloe sighs, sliding down the couch and cuddling against Beca’s side.

Beca’s phone vibrates on the arm of the couch,

Swanson, received 7:29pm

> **“Just helping U Bella$$ deal with ur impending failure ;-) Donald’s celebrating some track thingy, C U there shorty.”**

Amy gasps (Emily almost drops her entire bag of lollies) before reaching back to grab the remote from beside Stacie and pauses the movie again. Emily groans, (“C’mon Amy. That’s my favourite part!”) as Amy shuffles on the leather plush, struggling and huffing as she wriggles and slips around the beanbag. Eventually she concedes, descending to the floor and panting before turning around to look at Aubrey, chin balancing innocuously on her knuckles, “why don’t we ever throw parties?”

Aubrey’s arms fold across her chest, eyes boring into Amy’s. “Have you met yourself? The risk management paperwork would take so long to fill out,” she gestures to Chloe, “that Chloe and I will have already graduated before we can even throw it!”

Stacie snorts, and Chloe giggles, returning a grin from Aubrey. The interaction comforts Beca, a small smile pushes into her cheeks against her will. Stacie leans forward, yanking the remote from Amy’s hand and presses play, and a warm hand slips into Beca’s and squeezes. 


	10. Life of the Party

The mirror is cold and unforgiving where the skin of her forehead presses firm against the glass.

Music thumps through the Trebles’ house, climbing the stairs and crawling beneath the miniscule space under the bathroom door that separates her from the Barden university acapella cohort.

Chloe exhales, forcing her eyes open to see her reflection slightly obscured by the condensation that flourishes and withdraws with each drawn out breath. A tinge of grey swells atop the curve beneath her eyes, smeared hastily with thick, pressed concealer. Her skin is littered with a few outlying blemishes and her lips chapped in the bottom corners from constant wear and tear.

It’s as if she’s _wearing_ her mistakes.

Mentally, she is still a little spaced-out. The last two days play over and over in her mind like a broken record, spinning and crackling the same memories of hushed arguments, late nights and the feeling of her throat swelling, enclosing around unspoken words. Dark grey threads unwind in her stomach only to snap like strings.

She feels detached.

“Shit,” she whispers to herself, hands gripping the sides of the porcelain basin. She’s made a tonne of mistakes, beginning almost two weeks ago when she first found out that she had nodes, tumbling past keeping it a secret from Beca and fighting about it with Aubrey and falling ten flights down by attempting to ‘deal with it’ the one way she _can’t._

Her forehead thumps against the mirror twice.

She floated through her day; the string of a helium balloon trailing lightly through the dirt, drifting through the hours slowly.

And just like Thursday night, she had felt lost until her knuckles connected against the white timber of Beca’s door only a few hours ago.

Despite the events of movie night, Beca and her ‘pre-party routine’ had barely shifted, save for the odd questions Beca had asked about her throat and the three times she declined talking about the entire thing with an apology. The brunette had only let up when Chloe had relented, promising a discussion over coffee the following day. Beca had smiled with a nod, reaching around from her seat on the floor where she reclined against Chloe’s legs to place a light kiss against her knee.

Beca had quietened after that, humming softly to Angus & Julia Stone while Chloe’s fingertips twisted and threaded her chestnut locks, switching from tying up her Doc Martens with a stagnant head and torso in the name of hairdressing, and staring at Chloe in the mirror with a mixture of curiosity and care.

( _“Stop it.”_

_“Stop what?”_

_Chloe rolls her eyes and an amused huff is expelled from Beca’s nose, “I can see you staring at me, Mitchell.”_

_Beca looks to the floor, a pink blush reaching the tips of her ears, “I like looking at you.”_

_She regains boldness and the softness disappears, replaced by a smirk and a wink, “under what jurisdiction exactly is the crime for looking at something that pleases the eyes, Beale?”_

_“Section Shut Up of the Leave Me Alone Act.” Chloe grins, the beating of her heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird caged inside her ribs_.)

The walk from Beca’s to the party was the best five minutes of Chloe’s entire day. Beca had chatted about her day without prompt and Chloe had just _listened_ , losing herself in the stories about Jesse falling over three crates of records and her hour on air. She loved the rare moments like these, when Beca would lay herself bare. Chloe loved it even more when Beca had slipped her hand into her own, weaving their fingers the moment she had locked the door and pocketed her keys.

A feeling she had almost forgotten buzzed around her body, reverberating through her bones when Beca’s hand remained snuggled around her own, cool and soft against her palm as they stepped over the threshold of the landing. Stacie greeted them with a insightful nod, handing them a drink and grinning (still Beca didn’t let go). The taller brunette’s face of understanding dropped into a mixture of annoyance and entertainment when Emily knocked against her shoulder, approaching the two newcomers with a bumbling force.

“Chloe! Beca! You’re heeerree!”

Beca laughed, pulling Chloe closer as she leant into the chuckle. The touch threw her, and it took a few moments for her to finally turn to Stacie with a frown. “Seriously? She’s drunk already? You couldn’t even give her a few more hours? Has she even eaten anything?”

Stacie threw her hands up in defeat, stepping casually to the side when Emily brushed past her to head towards Jessica and Ashley who had just come down the stairs. “Woah, Chloe! You _know_ it wasn’t me who is responsible for this.”

“Well then who-” Chloe stopped talking when she met eyes with the blonde, Amy tipping her cup with a serious nod before saluting and returning to her conversation with a group of Trebles.

Despite Emily being a complete, adorable mess, the night was chalking up to be a good one. Beca had let go of her hand (because at a certain point, holding hands makes pretty much _anything_ difficult), but still managed to steal little touches from her; brushing her hair behind her ear, gripping her shoulder with her fingers while she impersonated Aubrey from their first year and sitting knee to knee on the carpet.

Yet like most good things, it had ended. Beca’s hand had found her way back in Chloe’s once more when they grabbed another drink, only to squeeze and release the moment the front door banged open and Donald and his athletics crew, including Tom, ambled in. Tom had thrown his hands in the air, yelling her name with unmistakeable excitement and pulling her into a tight squeeze.

They had barely spoke, just a few pleasantries, but Chloe could feel her. Could feel Beca’s curious stare boring into her back even after Tom left, watching and waiting while Jesse nattered animatedly into her ear without much response. Chloe had caught her eye, blue meeting blue as Beca sipped from her cup, tendrils of chestnut tucked behind her ear, the rest falling chaotically onto her leather jacket.

The stare was not kind, nor was it mean. It was infatuated. Something stirred, the greyish blue storm that constantly inhabited Beca’s eyes swirled and thundered intensely. Chloe felt raw, exposed, as if her best friend was trying to crawl under the skin of her cheeks, clawing into the strings of flesh that stretched over her face to settle.

The moment Beca’s cup lowered slightly, a smirk playing on her lips, Chloe had bolted; climbing the stairs two at a time until she reached the main bathroom. Panting, she locked the door, leaning back on the cool wood to catch her breath until taking even strides over to the toilet and dropping to her knees, heaving only once before vomiting chunks of fruit and pink punch into the porcelain bowl.

The acidy taste of her vomit still burned in her mouth now, leaning forward on the basin, hands shaking as she wipes the back of her hand across her lips. Chloe knows it’s guilt; the shame of every little lie she tells and every truth she withholds twisting and churning in her stomach, waiting to expel. She can’t keep lying to Beca, to Aubrey and to Tom. To herself.

(stop)  
  
With that thought she turns, walking back to the toilet to grab her drink that was placed carefully on the floor and downs it in one with a slight wince. She throws the cup into the bin, walking back over to the mirror to survey her appearance before dropping her head onto the cool mirror when the nausea returns. Her head shoots back when there’s a soft knock on the door, and Chloe prays it isn’t Beca.

“Max, hey.” The treble grins as Chloe shuts the door behind her, pushing himself forward from where he was leaning against the adjacent wall.

“Chloe Beale, as I live and breathe.” He chuckles, nodding at nothing in particular, the familiar tinge of red rimming his eyes. “You know Mitchell is on the hunt for you?”

“I better get going then!” She gives her best impression of fright and earns a laugh, “Sorry for- taking so long.”

“Nah,” his eyes twinkle, “I just always knock before even _trying_ the handle, most of the boys have little to no decency.”

“Oh,” she frowns, trying desperately to not read any further into that imagery, but to no avail. “Gross.”

“Yeah,” Max nods, staring at the wall in reminiscence for a few moments before shaking his head and looking back to her, gesturing to the bathroom. “Well, I better, y’know.”

“Oh!” Chloe moves to the side, so spaced out she almost forgot _why_ they were talking, “Of course.”

“See you on the other side, Beale.” He nods solemnly and salutes before twisting the handle and pulling open the door.

“Max, wait!”

(what?)

it’s an abrupt thought, almost overpowered by the pressing burn of the mixed spirits and bile in the lining of her stomach. It’s as if the words are blocked from her brain, tumbling from her mouth at a rate beyond her control and conscience to an awaiting Max.

 “Tom, uh, he told me you sold him some-” her hands flying all over the place, “Stuff?” Max nods with twinkling eyes, his hand resting idly on the doorknob. “I was just- I was wondering if you- if-”

He laughs, decidedly harder than the situation calls for and steps out of the doorway and back into the hall, holding his palm out. “Give me your phone, Beale.” She breathes a small sigh of relief and takes it out of her back pocket. She hands it to him and a few moments pass before he hands it back with a solemn stare, “Only party stuff, and I am never, ever awake before 11am.”

Chloe chuckles, and he nods again before gesturing to the bathroom with a grin. The light from the bathroom slowly disappears with the close of the door and she’s left standing in the dark, clutching her phone and somehow feeling nauseous, eager and incredibly guilty all at the same time.

* * *

There’s an odd mash-up of 80s tunes that can be heard over the echoes of laughter as Chloe pads down the carpeted stair case. She can hear what seems to be a chaotic mix of Madonna, Toto and Rick Astley and to her, it seems much too unsystematic and disorderly to be Beca’s.

Half way down the stairs, Chloe spots a few of the Bellas sitting in a circle, joined by a mismatch group of Trebles and High Notes. Most of them, including Aubrey and Emily, seem enthralled by a story told by Stacie. The group emits a handful of well-timed gasps and laughs and it takes Chloe a few beats to realise Stacie responds to a ‘truth’ of ‘truth or dare’, and not just telling an untimely sex-related anecdote. At the base of a recliner sofa, nestled beneath Aubrey’s crossed legs is Beca, chatting with Cynthia Rose and nursing a drink between her knees. Her pale skin pokes out between the rips of her black jeans, legs propped up level with her chin as she reclines against the footrest.

Chloe smiles, almost forgetting that she had _ran away_ from Beca only fifteen minutes prior. Instinctively her feet start to move towards Beca, but before she can take a step, a warm hand taps her elbow.

Jesse hands her a cup with a smile before turning around to a lone bar stool to retrieve his own drink and taking a sip. “Vodka Cranberry, right? Beca told me.”

She frowns, not because Beca knows her through and through (her favourite drink is a strawberry mojito, but she’d give her left arm if she found a sprig of mint in any of the cupboards of the Trebles’ kitchen) but because Jesse leans back against the bannister beside her, watching the game of Truth or Dare with interest, nodding in silent response to her thanks.

It feels a little awkward, she’s unsure if she should continue on to her destination or stay with Jesse. She decides on the latter to be polite, stepping back and reclining beside him, following his stare that focuses on Beca.

“She can be real crap with feelings, Chloe, but you mean everything to her.”

It’s the most candidly he has ever spoken to her.

They’ve rarely spoken one on one, and when they do it’s often strictly acapella. On times, and depending on the situation, they’ll joke around at Beca’s expense; make comments on how long it takes her to get ready, which is almost always satire because after Beca’s eyeliner is done and if she’s doing her own hair, she’s out the door in two minutes flat.

Jesse eyes haven’t left Beca, his empty cup has been long forgotten on the stool as he picks at skin beside his thumbnail with his teeth, watching.

Chloe clears her throat, trying to process what he has said, and _why_ before tearing her eyes away from him and back to Beca, who flicks Aubrey’s ankle absentmindedly while Emily rambles on. Aubrey’s hand swats at Beca, still engaged in conversation with Ashley and Jessica, and Chloe’s chest warms at the interaction and how far her best friends have come in regards to being even just the _slightest_ bit civil in public.

She clears her throat again, noting its roughness with an inattentive rub of her throat before speaking, “I know.”

He turns to her then, picking up his neglected cup and twisting the side of his mouth in trepidation, “I really hope so. I get the feeling she’s about to put her heart on the line for you and I just want to make sure you understand.” He doesn’t fiddle with the cup or look away but straight into her eyes; a chocolate brown that is both warm and dark and Chloe can’t help but notice how close the shade is to the colour of Beca’s hair. “I never had a lot of friends that I really felt like I could connect with before college, and Beca is definitely my best.”

She gets it. She of all people understands that like many others, Beca is important to him. What she doesn’t get is what _exactly_ he is referring to, or why he is giving her this talk. Does he know about the kissing? Has Beca said something to him about her?

(When it comes to anything to do with Beca, Chloe knows better than to ask. She knows it’s better to listen, to take it whatever information gets shared with her and go from there.)

He pushes himself up from the bannister, swaying a little before sliding his mouth into a winning smiling, “I like you, Chloe. Don’t hurt her.” He pats her shoulder affectionately and nods, and if she didn’t feel like a chastised child, she might laugh at how tipsy he seemed. Instead she nods earnestly, deciding to down her drink for the second time that night, feeling the scorch of the vodka intermingle with the sweetness of cranberry as it slides down her throat easily, eyes focusing on the tan brown carpet beneath her sneakers and running over his words in her mind.

“I’m about to hurt **you** , Jesse.”

Droplets of pink liquor fly from Chloe’s cup as she jumps, causing Jesse to snort before melodramatically wiping his cheek. Beca smirks as she comes to a stop in front of them both her tone simultaneously threatening and light. Chloe can’t help it when her eyes flicker down, noticing the triangle of flush skin just above Beca’s cleavage, a tell-tale sign that she is a little tipsy.

“I’d like to see you try.” Jesse chuckles, crossing his arms and giving her a once over, sizing Beca up, “what was it they called you in elementary? Vertically challenged?”

Beca finishes her drink, sipping from the straw until the slurp and splutter of the very last drop. She places her drink on the stool and crosses her own arms across her chest, eyes sparkling with trouble, “did you want me to tell Chloe what they called _you_ in elementary, Jess? Because I am positive that she would _love_ to hear, and the story that goes with it, too.”

“Alright, Jesus Beca! Why do you always have to whip that out?” He shakes his head good-naturedly, straightening up and pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down while Beca sniggers, holding on to the sleeve of Chloe’s denim jacket to steady herself. It’s a little movement, but Chloe can’t help but read into it, Jesse’s words and memories of Beca’s lips on hers playing on her mind. Jesse searches the party, head darting side to side until finding his target and calling “Max!” before gesturing outside. He laughs and turns back to them.

“You guys want to come outside for a toke?”

Beca shakes her head, “I’m okay, thanks dude. You gonna go out, Chlo?”

She almost doesn’t hear her, still stuck in a alcohol fuelled daze.

She almost doesn’t hear the _choice_ that Beca is so openly giving her.

Because unlike Aubrey, there’s no third degree from Beca, despite knowing that smoking would be the _worst_ thing for her throat. There’s no judgement from Jesse, who patiently waits with a little smile.

It’s the _smallest thing,_ and it only adds to the pile of mixed emotions in her head. It stacks upon the languid staring, the vomiting, the borderline threatening exchange with Jesse. She’s shutting down, each corner of her mind folding in atop each other.

It’s as if her mind and body is disconnected, her conscience floating further and further away from its encasing.

Her mind swirls with colours of dark violet and deep blue, confusion and self-hatred, the want to self-destruct, the need to disappear. To fall into the never-ending rabbit hole. She can vaguely hear Beca saying her name,

(Say something, _say something_ Chloe Jesus H Chri _-_ )

until finally she comes almost good again, launching from the darkness that had clouded her sight from the outside in and back to the party. Back to Beca as she tells Jesse that they were good, that Beca needed to use the bathroom. Back to a tug on her hand as she’s led up the stairs, past the bathroom and into what can only be Jesse’s room, due to the presence of _way_ too many Spielberg posters on the wall.  Her chest rises and falls rapidly in time with her trembling breath.

The door shuts quietly behind her

(she still can’t find it in herself to be able to speak)

and Beca switches the light off, quietly crossing the room until turning, coming to a halt facing Chloe. Soft hands slide from the top of Chloe’s shoulders and up her neck, once- twice- until resting beneath her ears, tangling in her hair and lightly gripping.

“Close your eyes and breathe, sunshine.”

Beca’s eyes shine brightly in the dark room, apprehension whirling and twisting in the steely blue. The nickname tugs at Chloe, feeling the warmth spread from the hands that are perched on her neck, blooming.  Her breathing slows, the feeling of overwhelming sensation falls and Beca tentatively takes a step closer. Chloe wants to tell her not to bother being tentative but to jump right in. She can’t find her voice.

Again.

Like a switch, the remaining anxiety turns into an overwhelming sense of dejection and self-hatred and she knows these mood swings are because of the MDMA and that she shouldn’t be so hard on herself and that she shouldn’t be so

(weak)

The word flashes to the front of her mind and her arguments with Aubrey climb, rising from the dark blue ashes only to coil tightly around her amygdala. Deafening heat floods her eardrums and nails dig into her palms, sharply piercing the flesh. She knows she’s losing control, and not only of herself through the means of others, but losing control of her own emotions and it’s all because of her own stupid decisions, her _need_ to show everyone that she is in charge of herself.

Her sensations and emotions run wild; the guilt, the gloom and worthlessness is engulfed by an inferno of anger. The flames thrash and burning, licking at every tissue of her flesh, darkening. She can feel her shoulders trembling and Beca slowly disappearing from her sight-

“Chloe.”

The softness of Beca’s voice extinguishes the flames into a wisp of black and grey smoke. Fingers dance around her own, pushing gently, worming their way into her enclosed fists and prising them open. Chloe blinks as Beca runs her thumbs over the half crescent wounds from her nails soothingly. The brunette steps closer, pulling Chloe closer by her hands before positioning them on Beca’s hips with a squeeze.

Desperate to just _feel,_ to revel, Chloe closes her eyes.

They’re so close now, she can feel the corner of Beca’s hipbones beneath her jeans, can feel Beca’s thighs flush against her own. Palms splay flatly on her lower back, rubbing and soothing up the curve of her spine, and Chloe shivers.

It’s scary how fast Beca can calm her, can bring her back from the Fifth Circle of hell with only a few stolen touches and a firm statement of her name.

But she can’t think about that now, can’t feel the fear of vulnerability as Beca’s breast rest just beneath her own, pushing into the very top of her stomach, hands sliding from her back to rest on each side of her waist.

Chloe can’t help but open her eyes, staring into the swell of black pupils.

“There you are.” They’re _so_ close, Beca melds against her body. Her nose trails along Chloe’s, tracing a path to her ear and back before coming to a stop. If she could concentrate on anything other than Beca’s breath against her lips and the feeling of thumbs circling the bare skin beneath her shirt, she could count the eyelashes on Beca’s lower lid.

Beneath the overwhelming sense of calm and safety, stirs lust. Chloe’s heart thuds in a confused stupor, perplexed by the many leaps and reasons for its beating; from panic to anger to _want_.

Beca’s nose persistently bumps against hers once more, and Chloe can smell the sourly sweet lime juice on her breath. Beca’s head moves back, eyes flicking between Chloe’s as if to try gauge how she’s feeling, if this proximity is okay.

Chloe wants to nod, to shout at Beca about just how badly she wants this. But she’s still overwhelmed, always ‘overwhelmed’. Unable to handle it all, to handle Jesse, the guilt and shame.

Suddenly, the corners of Beca’s lips twist into a slight smile, and Chloe settles a little, sinking into the here and now. She lifts her eyes to meet Beca, and from the look in Beca’s eyes, Chloe knows she _saw_ her look at her lips. Beca’s eyes flick down to her own, a rectangle of light that seeps from beneath the door gleams in her eyes momentarily before disappearing when blue meets blue as it has time and time again.

Beca mouth ghosts over her own, speaking in a gravelly tone that blends sincerity with her nervous stuttering. Inside, Chloe beams at her efforts. “It’s okay that you can’t speak right now, but I think you want what I- just- stop me with your hands or- or something if this isn’t what you want.”

Chloe wants to reach out, to put her hand on Beca’s shoulders to remind her to take a breath. But more so, she wants Beca to kiss her.

Somehow, she meets Beca in the middle, just as a hand curves around the back of her neck. She feels the ocean as they kiss; the calm rolling of waves ebbs and flows, the deep blue water cascades and winds through her cortex and quietens. Their lips move together, massaging, detaching and re-joining, falling into a rhythm that flickers familiarity deep within Chloe’s heart.

Chloe can’t help but moan when Beca swipes her tongue along her bottom lip. The noise is gravelly, broken and rough from not speaking for a while and she suddenly feels a little insecure about the sound of it, especially when the nails that were skating across her lower abdomen come to a stop.

The hands withdraw from beneath her shirt, only to bunch at the sides as Beca pulls Chloe in closer, kissing her hard with a groan. Beca guides them both towards the bed, her hands still bunched at the bottom of Chloe’s linen until the back of Beca’s knee’s collide with the bed and she falls. The brunette shuffles back with a smile, allowing Chloe to hastily straddle her and reconnect their lips. Chloe moans as hands find her hips, pulling and pushing in a grinding motion until Beca scoots back again, raising them into a seated position.

She struggles to peel her denim jacket from her arms while Beca’s lips are attached to her own. The brunette breaks the kiss in time to pull Chloe’s shirt over her head, despite the buttons, before leaning in and placing hot, open-mouthed kisses from the side of her neck, down and over her collarbone.

Beca’s hands and mouth are everywhere. Chloe hisses when teeth sink into the patch of skin between her cleavage and her mind is settled; the single thing she can think of in the moment is Beca.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of two parts.  
> I'm a little rusty so gimme some feedback if you want, good or bad.


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